The Consulting Tributes
by MajesticTragesty
Summary: John's POV. As if the rebellion never happened. It's the 100th Hunger Games, meaning that it'll be a Quarter Quell. Harry constantly reminds John that 'nothing happens to the Watsons,' but what happens when he's one of the tributes? What sacrifices have to be made in order to get back home alive?
1. Chapter 1

**A.N. Sooooo writing this because I needed it out of my system and I can't be bothered with my other two fics so here have Hunger Games and Sherlock! I have everything planned out for this except for clothing. If I miss anything out, I apologise. If I get it wrong, sorry. **

**I don't own either Sherlock or THG.**

**May I suggest listening to 'If it means a lot to you' by A Day To Remember when you're nearing the end of this? It's been my inspiration song through all of it and it's brilliant. Please give it a listen to! **

_**Let the games begin!**_

* * *

It's normal for us now. Each district has to go through with it. Each year, two people between the ages of twelve and eighteen are picked to fight against both the other eleven districts and themselves in order to live. Those who live get all the glory and are able to live much better lives than those who aren't chosen. Each year, we watch those we love die in order to please the Capitol. I've watched it too many times now, and it's the most revolting thing you could possibly watch. I really don't know how those Capitol freaks can get so much enjoyment out of it. Then again, I don't particularly _want _to know, either.

It's the day before the reaping, and everyone in District Ten are on edge. It won't be an ordinary reaping. God, no, I only wish. Instead, it will be the mark of the one-hundredth Hunger Games, meaning it'll be a Quarter Quell, so no one knows what'll happen. We have no control over what the Capitol decides, and to be honest, I'm pretty worried about it. It'll be over the top, no doubt, just to strike more fear into our hearts. But I don't really have time to worry about it just yet. I can save that for later.

I'm John Watson, sixteen years old, and my sister, Harry, has just walked straight into our cow. I'd be worried if I didn't know she was drunk. Our cow is pretty used to it, too, so she mainly ignores it unless she gets hurt by it. I really wish Harry wouldn't drink like this. We don't have enough money as it is, and what little money we do have ends up spent on her drink. It's a good thing I've signed up for tesserae. We'd be dead if it weren't for that.

Harry's a year older than me, so her name has been entered six times. She's almost always drunk, but I know her reason this time. She's worried about the requirements for this year's Quarter Quell. Hell, we all are, but there's no need to get drunk at. . . I glance towards the sun, and then down at our shadows. Just about three in the afternoon, it looks like. God she's drunk early. Still can't blame her.

"John!" her voice rings out a bit too high pitched for my liking. Really drunk. She repeats my name a few more times before finally staggering her way over to me. I don't look up, since I'm too busy rinsing out a bucket, but she carries on anyway: "Johnny-boy, we're gunna survive this yea' too, righ'?"

I manage a small laugh somehow, even though this isn't a laughing matter. We haven't been picked so far, much to our surprise. We're not exactly the luckiest family in the district, but the odds have been in our favour every other time. "Of course we're not," I reply. I don't really sound too convincing, but Harry's none the wiser. She kneels down next to me, swaying due to the drink, and eventually getting her balance. With her head on my shoulder, I feel at ease, but I know that tomorrow we'll be separated by our age groups. I won't have any form of comfort there. I try to show no signs of worry around her, like I've done for a while. Courage was something I was born with. It was almost as if I had been trained by the military to stand up against enemies without even an ounce of fear.

"Well, _I_won' get picked, I know tha'," she states, and I prepare for the whole 'drunks-speak-sober-thoughts' thing that happens every year.

"Well, the odds are in your favour, after all, Harry. Not everyone's so lucky." That sounded slightly bitterer than I intended it to, but I don't take it back. Compared to me and the other unfortunate kids around here, she's got off lightly. She's never signed for tesserae, even for the year before I was eligible to be entered. We were struggling for food, so when I was finally of age, I signed up for all three of us. Now, at my current age, my name has been entered into the drawing a total of twenty times. There are others around here who are worse off, with thirty or forty, depending on their family size and age. The odds aren't exactly in our favour.

We say that quite a lot, now. It seems like the Capitol's motto or whatever. 'May the odds be ever in your favour!' Yeah. Right. It's never in anyone's favour. Last year, one of the twelve year olds got picked. Poor girl. She died in the first day, unfortunately. She was a bit on the weak side, and only managed to score a five in the ratings. She never signed up for tesserae, despite having a younger brother and two very sick parents to care for. It was gruesome, but we were forced to watch it.

Harry started poking at the ground, slightly bored of the conversation already, it seemed. I say the same thing to her each year, and I'm certain she's getting sick of it now. The announcer people say it, too. We can even mimic their voices perfectly now. "You'll probably ge' picked, 'ya know. Twenty isn't too good."

"I'm aware, Harry. Go home or something. We'll need to rest up, and we don't need you with a bloody hangover before the reaping." She'll probably pass out during the announcement, but I make sure not to tell her that. Finally she gives in, and with a grunt, she walks off home, bumping into all sorts of things, people included, along the way. I don't tell her she's going the wrong way, either.

I finish with the bucket, pleased with myself for even managing to do work today, and place it by the side of the old fence that really needs to be replaced. I brush myself off as I stand up. These are my most decent clothes, and Mum probably won't want them ruined. They'll probably be washed again, tonight, just for tomorrow. Harry'll be wearing her blouse and skirt, like she always does. As for me, it'll be the standard uniform-like white shirt with black trousers. Most wear clothes like that, in some way or another. There's really no point in us getting dressed for our deaths. It doesn't take long to get back home - seven minutes at most, if I'm being honest, but it might take Harry a good hour or so before she realises she's gone wrong - and when I get in, Mum's sitting down on the stool, staring blankly ahead of her. She'd be watching the television if we actually had it on. We all would, but we're trying to do as much as we can for our families today. She doesn't say anything, but she manages to give me a nod. That's good, at least.

By the time Harriet actually finds her way back, it's a few minutes before we're all required to watch the announcement for this year's Quarter Quell. She's completely out of it, but somehow stays awake for when it starts. Even Mum watches intently as the screen quickly flashes on in front of us all. President Snow stands there, talking about the past and how the Hunger Games were started, and blah blah blah. That man's been around for way too long. Surely he was, what, in his nineties now? It wouldn't surprise me if he was in his hundreds. I heard from Mum that he was also there for the seventy-fourth games, when those two from District twelve won. Shouldn't he be dead already? Well, I'm not really too interested in him, as it is, so I pay attention to the box he's handed instead. It's amazing how something so small can contain something life changing. We watch anxiously as he opens it and reads the words on the envelope.

"For the one-hundredth anniversary of the Hunger Games, to remind the people of each district of the past and the fact that anybody can be taken from their homes, the names of both males and females will be entered into the same drawing, allowing two of the same gender to be picked and offered as tributes."

I can't help blinking at the screen once it's over, and for a minute or two, it's painfully silent. The only sounds being that of the cows and the sheep and chickens outside in the cold. Not helping. At all. On the plus side, it wasn't too dramatic a decision. It meant there were less chances of being sent into the arena. I pray to God it's neither of us. Praying doesn't get us anywhere, though. We'll still lose someone from our area. That we guarantee. I just hope it's not someone we know.

Harry's the first to break the silence with a loud cheer. It's deafening. I don't even want to look at her because of it. I can't take my eyes from the screen anyway. Mum, on the other hand, is giving her a glare, but it's not doing much. She just walks straight to her room and judging by the rather large 'thump,' has probably collapsed on the floor instead of her bed. So much for the hopes of he being sober enough to survive tomorrow. I don't exchange words with Mum, either. There's really no point. It's the same each year, and we've run out of words to say. We can't even say 'you'll be fine' or 'good luck' or 'make sure to milk the cow tomorrow.' There may not be a tomorrow if we're picked. I take her hand and squeeze it reassuringly. We'll be fine. We're always fine.

We're Watsons. Nothing ever happens to us.

* * *

The only person to get any sleep last night was Harriet, and that's due to her being unconscious through most of it. She woke up once or twice, mainly to go and throw up, but otherwise she remained that way. I could hear Mum sobbing not so quietly to herself and ended up going to lay with her instead. She has every right to be worried, but I attempted to calm her down and she eventually dozed off, leaving me the only person wide awake. I suffer from nightmares so I don't sleep much in general, but I can usually get a few hours in. This time I didn't even close my eyes unless I blinked. Too busy mentally preparing myself for tomorrow for the odd chance that one of us does get picked. Crying isn't an option. Shaking doesn't happen. I feel like a machine. Machines don't have feelings. Machines don't cry. Then I realised machines don't get entered into reapings. If it wasn't for that thought, I'd have stayed at home and convinced myself I was a robot. No need to go to the centre today. Not when I'm a machine.

And yet I still get dressed in the clothes I wear for every reaping, tucking my shirt into my trousers wherever it popped out from. I was right about Harriet's clothes: white blouse, grey skirt that seems to have darkened due to dirt, plain black shoes, and her hair in a loose ponytail at the back. The girls always looked slightly different from each other. The guys all looked like they'd been brought up in the army, looking identical.

Mum hugged us both and for a moment, we didn't think she'd let go of us. Not that we minded, of course; if it was a choice between being killed by another tribute or being crushed to death by your mother's embrace, I know what I'd choose. Harry has a headache and I'm not too sure if she'll make it or not. She's a strong girl, but with the amount she drank yesterday, she's probably not over her hangover. Nevertheless, she composes herself for Mum, uttering words of comfort to her while trying to pull away from her grip. Mum just sobs, adjusting my sister's hair so that she has something else to focus on.

While we're walking to the centre, Harry grabs hold of my arm and turns me to face her. Every other teenager keeps walking.

"Look. Whatever happens, remember that you are a Watson. _Nothing ever happens to us,_" she reminds me. She's not kidding, either. You can tell when Harry Watson is joking around and when she's serious about things. This was serious.

"Nothing ever happens to us," I agree with a small nod. We say that each year, too, and it's proven to be truthful each time. We walk the rest of the way gripping at each others hands right until we have our blood taken.

They still split us up by age groups despite the requirements of this year. I look around for Harry, but can't find her in her section. Too many kids blocking the way. When I do find her, she's talking to a girl next to her who seems to be in tears. I recognise that face. Clara? Clara's the girl Harriet's had a crush on for a while, and it was her sister who was picked last year. Still not over the death. Hardly her fault.

We stand there for a while before our announcer comes onto the stage, followed by our last two winners. Both of our past winners were male, and both weren't exactly the thinnest of men. The first wore something like a suit, which was odd in our district. We're not used to fine clothing, but this man could afford it. Shortish hair, slightly red, but not too obvious. Looked almost like he should be controlling some form of government or something. Oh, it's that man. He won the ninety-first game with ease. Holmes? Crumpet Holmes? Something like that. He'd managed to outsmart a lot of the tributes, and it was easy for him to be accepted into alliances. He never killed anyone, himself ("Too much leg work.") but he managed to turn the others on each other. He sat down on the far end of the platform, all official looking and whatever. I don't really like that man, myself. Never met him personally, but still.

The other wore glasses, had dark brown hair, and was slightly bigger than the Holmes. I can't remember him in the games, but he's a friend of Mum's and he was the one who sold us the cows. I've spoken to him a few times and he seems pretty decent. He doesn't snap at you or anything, and he's a pretty funny guy, but I have no idea how he managed to win his games. If it turns out he actually murdered everyone, I'd be worried. He doesn't seem like the type of guy, but the games change people. He sits next to the other winner. They look completely out of place.

The woman, apparently the head of this district, stands at the microphone and reads our history and all about Panem and why we're in this current situation. It doesn't take a genius to see that she's bored of reading the exact same thing, year after year after year. When it's over, she looks relieved that nothing too embarrassing happened during it, and gives the official looking guy a smile. He returns it, but it's quickly replaced with his concentrated look. I remember his actual name is Mycroft, now, and happens to be one of the most respected people in this district. He's on good terms with the woman who read her speech, and he's seen as some kind of figure of authority here. Harry's the one who called him 'Crumpet' when we watched him.

Another woman takes to the stage, quite a bit older than the previous. Grey-ish hair, kind looking face. She was from the Capitol, but she wasn't dressed to indicate it. She looked pretty normal, actually. The kind to offer tea and then comment afterwards on how she won't make a habit of it. Hudson was her last name, but we didn't know her first. We knew her as 'Mrs. Hudson,' and she didn't seem like she'd be telling us her proper name any time soon.

I try to catch Harry's eye again, but she's still consoling a weeping Clara. There's no one else for me to turn to and make light of the situation so I continue facing straight ahead, blanking out everything the lady is saying. For a moment I feel as though someone's watching me, so I turn back to Harry's section. Still not looking this way. As soon as I turn to see if it's anyone else, I notice a thin boy, black curly hair, one year older than me judging by the section he's in, staring at me. I don't know him. I've seen him once, yeah, but I've never spoken to him. The one time I saw him was when he was annoying a lady about her chicken, but I didn't stay around for the conversation. I find myself frowning at the boy, hoping he'll lose interest in me. Not that I'm interesting anyway. Before I can ask myself just _why_he'd be looking at me, the old lady's voice picks up a bit.

"And now for our tributes! Good luck, all of you, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

She dipped her hand into the bowl in front of her and dug around for names. The tension was unbearable and nerves were running high. One girl in the twelve year old section fainted because she was too scared, but no one dared look at her. All eyes were focused on that bowl. That bowl held the fate of two teenagers. We focused on our futures. Life or death.

_'Whatever happens, remember that you are a Watson. Nothing ever happens to us.'  
_

"Sherlock Holmes!" she calls, her voice becoming much louder now that not a single person was talking. I looked around for whoever had just been called, and when the others parted, I find it was the boy who took an interest in me. I don't know him. I've never met him. And yet, I couldn't help but feel as though this had been set up. It hadn't, of course, but it was just that feeling. Of all the people, it had to have been the one who was watching _me._ I feel somewhat guilty, but yet again I don't show it. The Peacekeepers move in to collect the boy, but it's not really necessary. He doesn't seem to mind that he's chosen. I instantly hate him for it. I watch him walk up the steps to join Mrs. Hudson on the stage, and he looks _bored._I clench my fists at my side. If I could move from this spot and hit him in those perfect cheekbones for taking this so. . . not seriously, then I would. In front of the Capitol and every district. Mrs. Hudson asks him to introduce himself, but he doesn't really need to. We know who he is now. Mycroft's brother. Two years running, the Holmes' have been chosen.

"Sherlock Holmes. You know everything else you need to so I won't bother explaining it to you idiots."

Great. He probably plans on insulting everyone to death. Mrs. Hudson reaches into the bowl a second time, mixing the slips of paper around. I can actually see Harry looking at me now. Nothing will happen to us. That's what her smile says. It's the same every year.

The slip of paper is opened, and the woman opens her mouth to speak. I don't hear the first time, because I'm too busy focusing on my growing rage over Sherlock's attitude. Then I find him staring at me again. Why was he doing that? God, it was weird. I feel more gazes on me now and hear a scream that sounds like Harriet's. Who's been chosen? Clara? She'd scream if it was her, maybe even volunteer if it was, but then I hear the loud '_JOHN' _after it, and realise the odds are in Clara's favour.

But they're not in mine.

"John Watson? Be a dear and walk up here please!" It takes a while to process the information, but when it hits me, it takes a lot of courage to not cry or complain or barge my way past the Peacekeepers. I make myself into the robot I was last night. I don't care. Robots don't have emotions. _Robots don't get picked for the Hunger Games._I walk up the steps, say my name, and shake hands with the competition. We don't say anything to each other. We don't talk. But we understand.

It's far too quiet for our liking. Apart from the sounds of Harriet crying, nothing can be heard. Both of us turn to the crowd of people, and we can tell this wasn't expected. No one volunteers for us. That's good. I'd feel worse if someone did. Better me than them.

Mrs. Hudson opens her mouth to speak once again but is interrupted by one of the adults in the wings. Was that singing? Was he singing? A simple 'la la la,' but it wasn't stopping. Another joined in, and another. It wasn't long before the whole of the district, including a rather emotional sister of mine, was singing 'la la la.' Everyone was singing it. It helped me a bit, and Mrs. Hudson managed a small smile, but it didn't change anything.

We're the tributes for the one-hundredth Hunger Games. One of us will die. Maybe we both will. The odds aren't in our favour. They never were.


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N. So here's chapter two. It turned out longer than I thought it would. No inspirational songs for this part, really. I'm still in need of outfit designs for the entrance ceremony, though, as well as for the interviewing bits. If anyone can help out, you can either contact me here or over at my tumblr ( moriartyhasthethneed . tumblr) and I'll attempt to get back to you. I'll admit I got a little bit lazy in some parts, and I'm crap at describing, but anyway, ENJOY.**

* * *

In the next few moments, we were being shoved into two separate rooms. This must be the part where they let us see our families and friends before we're taken to the Capitol and dressed up like those freaks. The part where we say our farewells. We may never see our families again after this, so I want to make it count. Mum'll be in hysterics, and Harry'll drink herself into a coma, I bet. At least they don't have to worry about food. That's probably the only good thing to come out of this.

So both me and Sherlock Holmes are in the Justice Building, waiting for the Peacekeepers to allow visitors to see us. I sit on the couch, burying my head in my hands and replaying the scene in my head. It doesn't seem real. Hasn't sunk in. As comfortable as the couch is, it makes me feel worse. It reminds me of the fact that we don't have things like this at home. This is what they'd have in the Capitol. I feel sick already. I know they record the tributes reactions to these things, and I don't want to show them I'm weak. They won't sponsor me if they think I'm incapable.

To take my mind off of things, I focus on my partner. I don't know anything about him other than the fact that he's seventeen and is Mycroft's brother. I find myself hating the older Holmes even more, now, since he'll obviously try to keep his brother alive. I'll barely even be noticed. What is he good at? Arguing over chickens? Yeah that'll help him win. I lay a bit further back into the couch, feeling some form of comfort and laughing to myself. He could probably stare the others to death. Insult them. He didn't look like an athlete or anything, and he doesn't look too strong, either. I can't judge a book by it's cover, though. I learnt that from previous Games. The weaker looking ones often end up surviving. Mycroft'll keep him alive no matter what. I'm as good as dead.

Harriet and Mum burst through the doors, crying and sobbing and being hysterical. I smile gently, but that only makes things worse. Harry clings to me and Mum stands back watching. When it's clear Harry won't move, she joins us both in yet another bone-crushing hug. I find myself wanting to die here again instead of out there in the arena. Better place to die. It doesn't look like either are letting go any time soon, so I try to push them both away. Not too hard, God, no. They're not exactly the happiest people in the world right now, and I wouldn't want them to think I hate them. There's only so many tears my shirt can take.

"Johnny-boy, look at me. You'll win this. They won't notice you. That's a good thing. Do us proud, Watson," she says, both hands placed on my shoulders. She's trying to control her shaking. She's doing a crap job of it. I don't know how they'll manage, but they will. I have no doubt about it.

Mum doesn't say anything but she strokes her hand through my hair to try and sooth me. She's the one who needs it more. Her eyes are distant and I know that look anywhere. Acceptance. She's accepted the fact that I'm going to die. Painfully. I won't win these Games, and she knows it. She might not want to lose me, but she knows she will. She's got Harry, anyway. At least one of us will live.

Harry keeps talking, regardless: "They don't know anything about you. You're a fantastic shot. You'll do great. You'll give our district hope, John. Don't trust that Sherlock guy though. He's a weirdo. Promise me?" I can't exactly promise her I won't trust him. I'll have to learn about him, maybe form an alliance with him if I'm going to live longer than a day. So I simply lean forward and kiss her forehead. It's not exactly a promise, but it's the best she'll get.

The Peacekeepers are hurrying them out the room already. That didn't seem long at all. I don't think anyone else will come and see me, so I just stay there on the couch, thinking things over. The best chance of me surviving would be to form an alliance. But with who? The Careers won't accept me. They'll ignore me unless they think I'm a threat. Sherlock looks like he'd work alone, to be honest, so there was a very slim chance. I won't know who the other tributes are for a while. We'll be shown the playbacks for it later. I'll take notes if I'm not too tired. We haven't been taken to any cars yet, so I'm guessing Sherlock has more people to see off. Not his brother, of course. He'd be our mentor in this with Stamford. He could talk to his sibling any time he likes. Me? No. I probably won't see her again. She'll watch me from the centre, but I won't see her.

Sherlock must be ready to leave now, since we're heading to the cars. I've seen them before, but riding in one is completely different. We're on our way to the station at last, but I groan when I see the amount of reporters waiting for the tributes. Neither me nor my partner show any signs of emotion, though it comes more easily to him. I catch him glancing at me from time to time, but we still refuse to talk to each other. If we do any talking, it'll be during lunches or when we're discussing whatever we're meant to discuss. Now was not the time.

We both walk to the train, but we don't board yet. Instead we let the reporters have their fun and take photos for their articles and whatnot. Sherlock keeps his expression the same the whole way through. When they've had enough of taking our photos, realising they won't get a reaction out of either of us, they allow us inside, the doors closing behind us quickly. Mrs. Hudson tells us that we've got separate rooms, which I'm thankful for, and that we can do whatever we like on here. There are also clothes in the drawers that we can wear, and I feel like they're going to look fancy and really out of place on us. We'll be able to eat in an hour or so. It's strange being surrounded by things you're not used to. Our chambers are decent, which is actually an understatement since I've never seen anything like them before, and the rooms we were in earlier don't even compare to this. I literally jump on the bed and just curl up against the duvet, blocking out the rest of the world. I don't know how long I stayed there for, but by the time I got back up I gained a visitor.

The tall boy stood by the door, watching me intently. He didn't look as bored as he did before we got on the train, but he still wasn't exactly happy about anything. We're tributes. We're not meant to be happy. I let out a small sigh and glare at him, like I did at the reaping.

"And what do you want?"

He focused on my eyes for an unsettling moment, then smirked and strode off. The hell did that mean? What was even going _on_? If I'm not liked, he can bloody well say it to my face! If he had a problem with me, he could state it easily. Hell, he could have the first shot at killing me since I'm gonna die in the arena anyway. My face is heating up in anger again, and my fists are balled up in my lap, but I count to three and manage to calm myself. Slightly. The duvet fabric helps when I bring it up to my face. Too soft. But I like it either way.

I decide to rinse myself off after I've eaten. Thank God Mrs. Hudson called us for 'tea' just as I was about to leave the room and explore the other cabins. I sit next to Sherlock, even though I really don't want to, with Mycroft, Stamford and Mrs. Hudson sitting opposite. Mrs. Hudson is drinking some sort of Capitol drink. I can tell it's tea, but I don't know what kind. Mycroft is eyeing the cake stand but doing a good job of resisting them, and Stamford is watching us both with a huge grin on his face. I can't help but smile back at him.

"John Watson, it's been a long time!" he declares, reaching over and shaking my hand. It hasn't actually been a long time at all. I saw him last week.

"Yeah, it has, hasn't it?" I agree with a fake smile. "Didn't think I'd be seeing you under these circumstances."

"I'm sorry you got chosen for this. Don't think anyone expected it, to be honest. Can't change it back now, though. So how's life been?" I heard Sherlock snort next to me, but otherwise he stays silent.

"Same as everyone else. Crap." We both laugh, though my heart's not in it, since it's the truth. Both of the Holmes brothers notice and share a look. Stamford cleans his glasses quickly before turning to the older tribute.

"And you, Sherlock? Keeping out of trouble?" The food arrives, and I notice it looks much like a roast dinner.

"Depends on what you mean by 'trouble.'" A _huge_roast dinner. How could I possibly eat that? I'm not used to food like it, but my mouth's watering just at the sight of it.

"You got in an argument with a lady over her chicken, I heard. Want to explain that one?" Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft tuck into the food almost automatically whereas I just stare at it in disbelief. Potatoes, chicken, beef, gravy, vegetables; all piled on a plate that didn't look like it could take the weight. I give into temptation before my mind tells me not to accept it.

"I merely stated that she should take better care of the chicken, since it was ill and she was obviously ignoring it and leaving her child to tend to it instead."

"She could've just been busy," Stamford continued, though I wasn't paying too much attention to the conversation until he looked at me with a 'watch this' sort of smirk. I didn't watch, too focused on the meal in front of me that didn't seem to shrink in size. There were more courses than this to come. Regardless, I decided it might be best for me to figure out where Mike was going with this and kept an ear open. Sherlock budged a bit, folding his arms over his chest like an impatient little kid and giving a frustrated sigh to match.

"You could clearly see that she was buying alcohol, and she'd had it before she got back home, proven by the way she looked like she was going to fall over at any given point. Judging by how intoxicated she looked, she had about two bottles of it, though she doesn't have much money. That's because of her husband, who spends the money on what is needed, but he's become ill and she's gotten depressed over it, if anyone bothered to look at her face. It's obvious. Too many frown lines, and she didn't smile around people, anyway. So she took to drinking and spends whatever money she can on said drinks. It's been that way for a good four days if you do the calculations. Two bottles per day, give or take depending on how much money she has. Seven bottles each in buckets near her house.

"Now, the chicken. How did I know she wasn't taking care of it? Easily. If you saw her hands, they were completely clean. Her clothes were fresh too. Or at least they appeared to be. She hadn't actually cleaned them for a few days since she obviously hasn't got time, what with being drunk. If she'd been taking care of her livestock, there would be some indication of that on her clothing, like grain or dirt. There wasn't a speck on any part of her clothing. So I suggested she take better care of her animals unless she wants to lose whatever income she's getting like the idiot she is."

All eyes were on him. It took less than sixty seconds for him to say all of that, and it was pretty damn amazing. I didn't give a crap about my dinner at that moment. He could have slowed down a bit, but the speed at which it was said just added to the brilliance. I can't help but stare at him, but he doesn't look at me. He watches Stamford like he's an idiot, and then looks towards Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft rolls his eyes as if he saw this coming. Was it normal for him to do that?

"That was brilliant," I accidentally blurt out, and suddenly the focus of attention is me. I chuckle to myself, taking in all that was said, then return to eating the food again. To my surprise it's still warm. I ignore everyone else until Sherlock speaks up.

"What?"

I really don't want the meal to go to waste, so I pretend I don't hear him and manage to finish the meat. I wish they had this kind of food back in our district. If we did, we wouldn't be so hungry all the time, I guess. No one speaks for the remainder of the meal, and I find myself too full to even think about a dessert, so I sit there, waiting for everyone else to finish. Sherlock eats a small amount, but it's barely noticeable. It doesn't even look like he's touched his food.

Mrs. Hudson is the first to leave, reminding us to watch the recap of this year's reapings. I don't think I want to know what brutes we'll be up against, but I know I have to. If I'm gonna have any shot of winning this thing, I'll need to get whatever information I can. My partner looks as though he's going to leg it to another part of the train to watch, but I don't comment. He probably wants to get a good look at the competition, too. Mycroft leaves next, bidding us both a small farewell, to which Sherlock only grunts and kicks back in his chair. Stamford shakes my hand before retiring to wherever he's staying, leaving only me and Sherlock behind. We don't bother communicating for a minute or so, but when he stands up to go, too, I find myself laughing again. He turns to frown at me but doesn't say anything.

"That thing you did. It was absolutely brilliant. How did you know all that from that one encounter with that woman?" I ask. Not just because I feel the need to have _some_form of conversation with him, but because I am actually fascinated. I've never known anyone do that before.

He looks a bit shocked at first. Was he not used to the compliments or something? I would've thought a lot of people would comment on just how he did it. If it wasn't for the fact I knew it had actually happened, I would have thought the whole thing was a lie. He tilts his head at an angle to look at me. Now he just looks plain confused and suspicious.

"You think?"

I nod once, unable to stop myself from smiling at him. "Yeah, seriously. That was just - wow. Really." That sends him into even more shock, but he regains his composure and straightens up with a slight smirk on his face.

"I also know that you lost your father a few years back and had to cope without him. Your sister, Harry, has a bad drinking problem, and is in love with another girl called Clara, though she won't admit it any time soon. Your mother is worried, but I don't see her often. Either due to illness or just because she doesn't like leaving the house. You don't like your sister's drinking habits, and it's almost tearing you apart, but you're hanging on for the sake of your mother. You're left handed and you always curl your hands into fists when you're agitated, but you don't show it through your facial expressions unless it's too much for you to handle. You also hate me and my brother already. I saw how you wanted to hit me at the reaping. That been said, you're very aware of your surroundings. Most people don't notice me observing them, yet you instinctively turned around. My opinion is that you don't trust people outside of your family, and that you're very protective of those you care for, so if anything were to happen you would know in a matter of seconds."

I'm literally dumbfounded. We've never truly met before. Ever. The first time we'd made eye contact was when we were standing in our sections, and he already knows that much. I pray to God I won't be the one who kills this tribute. Good luck to whoever tries.

"Bloody fantastic," I compliment him again. This time he holds a hand out to me to shake, and I gladly take it. For a guy as skinny and boney as him, he's got a pretty firm grip. Maybe not so useless, after all.

"That's not what most people say."

"And what do most people say?" He gives a small laugh before giving me a reply, and it's not the kind of reply I expected.

""Piss off.""

We walk around the carriages in silence for a few minutes, but it's not like it was uncomfortable. Yeah, we've not really done much other than watch each others movements the whole time, Sherlock more so than me, but I don't feel like I hate him much, now. Liking him won't be easy. Liking someone can't happen. I don't want to make friends in this. They'll only die if they feel like they need to protect me, and I don't want that. Death isn't exactly the most amazing thing to witness, though it pleases the Capitol for whatever grotesque reason. If I make friends with any of the other tributes I'll feel bad later when they die, and I'll have to kill someone eventually.

We decide it's best to watch the recap of the reapings together so we can discuss it after. Neither of us want to see ourselves on the screen, so we focus on the other tributes. District One is up first, as always. It goes from One to Twelve, in that order, showing the picking of the names, the tributes on the stage, the handshakes, the volunteers. District One being one of those districts where the Career tributes come from, the kids there volunteer to be put into the Games. They train their whole lives for the time they go in, and often end up winning. No one stands a chance. But the good side to that is that they often end up forming alliances. Districts One, Two and Four hold the Careers, and once everyone else has been killed off they turn on each other.

The first to volunteer is a female. Dark skinned, dark hair, looks a bit stuck up and like a bitch. Sally Donovan. She looks like she could handle a few on her own, but she's a Career. She'll choose to form an alliance. She's grinning to herself. Proud. Prepared. She shakes hands with the mayor and escort before folding her arms across her chest in a smug manner. She thinks she'll win.

The second to volunteer is a guy around seventeen, I guess? He's skinny, but not as skinny as Sherlock is. Short-ish dark hair and the kind of face everyone would want to hit. Anderson. Anderson? _Just_ Anderson? I think it's his surname, but I can't be sure. It's probably to attract more attention. The only attention he'll be getting from me in the arena is me hitting his jaw. Or possibly killing him. I glance towards Sherlock, and he looks like he's thinking the same thing. I hear him mutter something like '_that idiot'll be down in no time_' and try to keep a straight face.

District Two is up next. Careers. The first to volunteer is a fourteen year old male, with dark hair that almost looked black, and yet somewhat blue in the light. You'd have to squint to see it though. Unlike the other males in his section, he's incredibly skinny. Sherlock-skinny. He walked onto the stage with an unsettling grin and introduce himself almost in song. James Moriarty. According to the escort, he has some kind of standing and reputation in the district. He looks alright, I suppose. Nothing really stands out other than that smile. Sherlock yawns beside me and mutters 'gay,' which sets me off in a fit of giggles.

"And how do you know that?" I enquire, somehow managing to get over the laughter.

"I don't know, John. I _notice._"

Well that ends that topic.

Immediately after James, a taller figure offers to be tribute. Eighteen years old, blonde hair, a small scar above his right eye. Fighter build. I don't want to run into him in the arena. From what I've seen so far, he looks like the most likely to win. Sebastian Moran. Him and James know each other, I can tell: they keep glancing over at each other, the younger one grinning from ear to ear and the older sneering. I thought the first two tributes were bad. These give me one of those uneasy feelings.

District Three is called next, and as soon as the first name is called, the camera shot moves to a small girl, probably thirteen or so, standing at the far back of her segment with tears in her eyes. Poor kid. I hear an older woman sobbing in the background. Might be a relation, but we don't get to see her. The Peacekeepers move in and help her to the stage, shaken and in complete shock. When she gets past the tears, she mumbles her name so quietly it's hard to pick up, but it's Molly Hooper. Browny-redish hair tied up like Harry's was in a single ponytail. Petite figure, very nervous. She shouldn't be there. Seeing her stand there reminds me just how sickening the Games are. Sherlock goes to talk, but the next tribute is called quickly. Originally it's a twelve year old male who's called out, but when he's taken to the stage, another voice rings out through the speakers.

"_I volunteer as tribute!"_

I wonder if they're the only volunteer who isn't a career in this round. The younger boy returns to his segment, and the camera focuses on the seventeen year old section, where the others have parted so we can get a good view. He's a tall boy, brown hair but with a few bits of grey in, looking like he was built to actually win this, and the determination is unmissable. He's trained a little bit, from the looks of things. He's taken up to the stage in place of the other boy, saying his name is Gregory Lestrade. Molly looks even more worried now. Perhaps they know each other? I'd hate to be in their shoes if they did. Then again I'm starting to get to know my own partner. Maybe we're not so different.

While I take notes down on the distinguishable features, Sherlock glowers at the screen. He doesn't like this. I can't see him taking any notes. No paper, no pen. Nothing. So unless he's making a list in his head, I can't see him surviving long if he doesn't bother.

The next two, District Four, are a worrying pair. They look athletic and could probably outrun us. Carl Powers, sixteen, has the build of a swimmer, which doesn't surprise me when you look at what district he's from. If our arena is water based, we've all lost to him. The female, Violet Hunter, has the same figure but looks more womanly. I realise there are a few who are seventeen or eighteen this year. I don't see what section she's from since I glanced over at Sherlock at that exact moment to see how he was reacting to these. Concentrated. Calm. He'd doing better than me.

District Five only has one person I need to look out for. The first tribute called is a thin twelve year old who won't last a day. She looks a bit mad, to be honest. Her eyes keep darting between the escort and the two previous winners sitting behind her, slightly to the left. The tribute I'm most worried about is the fifteen year old Henry Knight. He looks capable enough, and might even make it into the top three, if he's careful. He looks frightened to begin with but gains a sudden burst of confidence. They get to the hand shaking again, Henry looking a bit skittish when the girl shakes too fast.

District Six doesn't hold anyone of importance, in my view. Two girls, both twelve, both with light brown hair. One is a bit taller than the other, but other than that you can't tell them apart. I'd say they were twins, but their surnames are different. Not that I was paying attention.

Seven, on the other hand, held a confident young man by the name of Dimmock. I don't remember the other part of his name, but 'Dimmock' stuck because I thought it was pretty odd. Sherlock doesn't like him much. Like the Anderson bloke, he's called an idiot, too. I don't get a look at the other one, but I can ask Sherlock later. I'll be seeing them at the ceremony but I'd rather get the details sooner than later.

Eight and Nine aren't too special either. I feel horrible, though, with the amount of twelve year olds getting picked. Unless they've signed up for tesserae, I can't help but feel sorry for them. The odds of them getting picked are usually one in a whole bunch of other names. A male and a female this time, for Eight. The boy is the unlucky twelve year old, and the female's sixteen like me. Nine have two fifteen year old males chosen.

Then it's us.

I don't want to watch it. I know I have to, but I can't. I don't want to see myself, or Harriet crying, or even Sherlock being called. I think the boy beside me senses this, but he doesn't do anything to help. He's probably anxious too, but doesn't show it. I'm tempted to ask if we can just skip this part, but before I even ask, he shakes his head, leans forwards with his elbows on his knees and brings his hands to his face as if he's praying. His index fingers rest against the tip of his nose, his thumbs under his chin. Why the hell am I noticing that? I turn my attention back, trying not to cry at what will happen.  
They show Sherlock being called first. His calm face makes me want to punch it again, but if I do actually end up doing it I'll avoid his cheekbones. They zoom in on Mycroft who appears unaffected, and I catch a glimpse of Stamford, but I can't see his face too clearly. They're focusing on the Holmes brothers. Then comes Sherlock's insult, Mycroft's eye roll, and Stamfords sorrowful smile. I don't want the next bit. Watching myself on a screen is something I didn't think I'd ever do. I don't want to do it now. I feel Sherlock's grip around my arm, and it's really not helping, but I'm grateful for him trying. Comforting people isn't something he's good at, I think.

My name is read, and the camera automatically goes to Harry, and now that I'm actually watching it, she's in tears, lashing out at some of the people who won't let her past. She hits one of the Peacekeepers. Not a good idea. They eventually turn to me, but I'm not paying attention to anything but Sherlock Holmes. God I look like an idiot.

I decide not to watch the rest of our district's part, and find a very interesting spot to stare at above me. Sherlock keeps watching. I'm breathing quicker. Nerves. I'm not even in the arena and I'm nervous. I take deep breaths to stop myself from tearing up. I don't think they have cameras here, but on the odd chance they do, I don't want them seeing me as an emotional wreck. So I put on my brave face. Block out emotions. Like a robot.

My eyes are back on the screen when I hear the song, however, and I actually see the man who started it off. I make a mental note to visit him if I survive. Suddenly the speakers project it louder and I can tell Sherlock's the one turning the volume up. I find myself singing along with the crowd. Sherlock suppresses a smile. When it dies down and goes to the next set of tributes, I'm grinning like an idiot. Our reaping wasn't the best. Hell, I'd be worried if it was, but we did something different. I remember what Mum said about the seventy-fourth Games. When someone volunteered as tribute for their sister. The entire district showed their support or something. It was a three fingered salute, I think? They touched their mouths with those three fingers and held them to the sky. I don't actually know what it meant. I haven't seen it happen during the Games I've watched, but the feeling and intent must be similar to what happened here.

We keep an eye on District Eleven. They look like strong contenders this year, but I could be wrong. It depends on the training scores. Twelve is the same, oddly enough, though compared to the Careers they look like small fry. The recap ends with the words 'may the odds be ever in your favour!' before flickering out. We just sit there, replaying it in our heads. Sherlock doesn't get up, so I take leave first. I bid him a good night and he nods. I don't think I'll be seeing him again today. I turn back only to see that he's watching it through again, still with his hands steepled in front of his face. I take the opportunity to have a quick shower and attempt to get some rest. Sleep doesn't come easy. I'm used to the nightmares, but after the events of the last twenty four hours, they're more vivid. I wasn't a tribute in the Games. Instead it was Harriet, and she was being targeted by the two from District Three. I wake up as soon as the arrow fires. The sweat's pouring off of me and the duvet is saturated, so naturally I throw the thing on the floor and just lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling. As comfortable as the bed is, it's not right for me. I want my bed at home. I want to have Mum beside me complaining about Harry's drinking. I just want to go home.

And that, of all things, is what starts the tears.


	3. Chapter 3

**A.N. Fixed the problems with the second chapter. I mixed two and three around by accident. Moran and Moriarty are actually Careers from District Two. Molly and Lestrade are normal tributes from District Three. Sorry for the mixup! Also changed some spellings because I forgot that 'Games' and 'Gamemakers' have capital letters at the beginning. Too lazy to edit first chapter though. Sorry. Special thanks to Joanna for letting me rant about costumes. How do you even put up with me, seriously? **

**The next chapter is way longer than this one and the others. Sorry about that. But on the plus side, we're getting closer to the actual Games.**

* * *

I'm still not sure how I managed to nod off after the nightmare a few hours back, but I'm not complaining. Any amount of sleep is better than none. So I get up, realising I haven't looked in the drawers since we boarded, and since I need to get dressed it's the ideal opportunity for me to see what crazy get ups they've given me. I rummage around until I find a striped sweater and plain black trousers, then find a green coat hanging up. I slip them on, feeling the warmth instantly. It's gotten colder, and usually I'm used to it, but I slept with no covers last night and I'm finally feeling the effects of it.

We're still not at the Capitol. We've still got a few hours for that. I was planning on staying in my part for the rest of the journey, but apparently we need to talk to our mentors, so I'll end up seeing Sherlock again regardless. I don't think we'll end up as allies in this, but we might as well try to learn what we can about each other. Mycroft and Stamford plan on giving us tips and advice to get us through, but I'm a lost cause. There's no point.

I see the other tribute still watching the recaps while I make my way to the dining car. Disturbing him doesn't seem to be the right thing to do, so I walk on, wondering if I get food when I get there. I'm greeted by Mrs. Hudson first. Now that I think about it, she's the most normal escort I've seen in a while. When I watched the recaps, I saw how most wore wigs of bright colors, or had their skin painted with tattoos and ridiculous make-up. Maybe she doesn't feel like she needs to make-up or the wigs to look nice. It's a good thing she doesn't wear them. She looks better without using anything over the top. She's a nice woman too, but when I heard Sherlock asking her for some tea, she responded with 'I'm not your housekeeper, dear,' which I thought was fair because she isn't our housekeeper.

She offers me a cup of tea, so I accept out of politeness and take a seat to wait for the others. There are a few things stacked on a tray in a pyramid shape but I have no idea what they are. More Capitol foods, most likely. Nevertheless, I'm feeling pretty hungry, so I pick one up and take the wrapper off, leaving it next to the tray. It looks like some kind of chocolate, but I could be wrong. I'm not exactly an expert on Capitol delicacies. I pop it into my mouth anyway. Yeah. Chocolate. Just plain chocolate. It tastes too good for me to stop, though, so I pick out three more and shove them in my mouth, too. Oh, that tastes good. Harry would love these. I hope her and Mum are doing okay. They should have enough food to last them, but I'm worried about how much money they'll be getting if my suspicions are right. Harry'll be drinking, and she might leave Mum to tend to the cows. I hope she'll realise she has to do the work while I'm gone, now. She can't slack off.

I was enjoying the chocolate so much I didn't notice a certain seventeen year old sitting next to me drinking a cup of coffee. It was only when he straightened up and accidentally touched my arm that I bothered to note any presence. Stamford walks beside Mycroft, whispering in a hushed voice, but when they're seated they give us identical smiles as if we didn't hear what they were talking about. I heard nothing, but I wouldn't be surprised if my acquaintance did. I take a sip of my own tea and the exact time Sherlock takes a sip of his coffee, and we both manage a small smile to hide any laughter.  
"I trust you had a good rest, Watson?" the older Holmes asks. I shake my head rather than replying. He can just call me John. I don't see why he doesn't. He turns to his brother, smile turning to a bitter frown. Sherlock snorts and turns to me, as if I'm suddenly the most interesting being on the planet. So they're not on good terms. Whatever the reason, it's not my business to find out or interrupt, so I clear my throat and turn to Stamford. Sherlock keeps his gaze on me. I can feel it burning into the side of my face.

"So you're supposed to give us advice on how to survive in this thing. Lay it on us, then," I say. Stamford looks pleased at how eager I am to get this sorted already. As soon as this part is over, I can eat and go back to sleep. I don't need to put any weight on, but a little more couldn't hurt in time for the thing itself. Sherlock, on the other hand, needs to put hell loads more on.

Mycroft speaks first, addressing me rather than Sherlock, but I know he's talking to the both of us. "Water and food. You'll need both of those to survive, otherwise you will die in a matter of days. That's obvious. Find a water source. If you can't hunt, find berries. Depending on the arena, that shouldn't be too much trouble, but we don't know what will happen."

"Secondly," Stamford continues from where Mycroft leaves off, "don't give away your position to enemies. If you do, you'll either be killed or be the one doing the killing. Neither of you seem the type to kill, but I know that John will have no problem if it comes to it." I blush in embarrassment: Stamford's seen me in a fight before and I almost killed the lad. It's not something I'm too proud of, and I really don't want to remember it. Sherlock adjusts his position next to me to watch Mike instead. That helps a lot. At least he isn't judging me. I think.

"Giving away your position is idiotic. If someone finds where you've made camp and you've disappeared, they will either be on your trail or looking for anything you've left behind, so don't leave anything important." Sherlock snorts and mutters 'don't be stupid.' I hope he's not directing that at me. The only thing they don't say is 'stay alive' or 'don't die.' I can't promise those. Other things said are along the lines of 'ration your food' and 'you don't have to form an alliance, but if you do, split away early. Take advantage.' Mycroft would know all about that. He manipulated the alliance he was in, and that was how he had won. I'm still not sure how Mike managed it, but he doesn't seem keen on letting me know either.

We all part ways and once I've demolished the rest of the chocolate pyramid I make my way back to my room, flopping down onto the bed but I can't drift off to sleep again. Maybe they missed a few bits of advice out? I go over previous Games in my head. Sometimes unnatural events occur, like tidal waves or forest fires. Those would be set by the Gamemakers, I think, so I should watch out for them. Berries I should be careful of, but I know a bit about them, thank God. Mum knew a lot about what berries you can and can't eat, so she taught me and Harry. Herbs wouldn't be a problem for me, either. For someone in the district that revolves around livestock, it wasn't something I was interested it. I prefered medicines there and learnt a great deal about herbs and medicines and cures. It helped out. Mum fell ill and she couldn't make it to the woman who was pretty much our nurse, so I tried to help instead. She would have been better off going to that woman, but at least she wasn't in as much pain. Since then I had been treating her when she wasn't well.

I hope Harry applies what little knowledge of medicine she has to help Mum during this. I'm scared for her health. My choosing will have an effect on her.

Someone's standing in my room now, and it takes a while for me to recognise the slim figure that is the other tribute for our district. He doesn't try to move closer, but he's observing me closely. I sit up straight on the bed and motion for him to sit next to me, which he does. We stay silent but it's comfortable. We're nearing the Capitol now, and the train comes to a halt to refuel.

"You're strong and have good knowledge when it comes to medicines." I nod. "You can object, but I don't want you as an enemy in the arena. You may prove to be a valuable asset, though I'm not willing to form an alliance. I prefer to work alone because having people get in my way is -"

"It's fine. I don't really want you as an enemy, either: we're not friends or anything. Hell, we don't even know each other properly," I interrupt. We won't be the ones to kill each other. That's all I want. An alliance would probably be better for us. We might actually work well as a team, with his knowledge and my strength and confidence. Even if we form an alliance and end up the last two tributes, only one would be able to live, and if I had my way, I'd let him kill me first.

"That's good, because I don't have friends," he states plainly. I don't comment.

We discuss the other competitors, and he says who he thinks will die on the first day, as well as the possible winners. Moran's a shoe-in, and that Lestrade looks pretty good, too. I share my views on who will form alliances, and he agrees with a few of my guesses.

"Moran and James will be together, yes. Sally and Anderson too. They might even all work together, if you count the fact that they're Careers. Carl and Violet will team with the District One tributes, but what you think on Lestrade may not happen. He'll try to impress the Careers to get on their side, but he won't leave Molly. Dimmock's an idiot and will try to go with Lestrade, but he won't accept it."

"It's amazing how you know this much just from watching the recaps," I say, complimenting him without realising until after I say it.

"You should really stop that."

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine. I'm not used to it, but it's fine," he reassures me with a small smirk. He stands to leave but it doesn't look like he wants to. The train starts up again and we're back on track to the Capitol. Not long left now. Offering for him to stay here the rest of the trip isn't the best idea, so I don't do it. People would talk about it. It'd be spread all over Panem if that got leaked. And I'm not gay.

So instead he just nods, and by the time he reaches the door, he speaks too quietly for me to hear anything else. It sounds like a warning though. I hear 'Careers' and 'careful,' but nothing else. He exits quickly to his room. Sleeping for the rest of the journey is the best thing for me to do right now, but it's difficult. I try and manage a few minutes before I wake up again. There's no point in me trying a second time so I spend a while in the shower, cleaning off whatever dirt is still clinging to me. Relaxing. Hot water. We're not used to having hot water, but damn, it feels good. I still can't fall asleep when I'm back in the bed, though. So I stare at the ceiling, thinking of nothing but the tributes and possible alliances.

The train slows once more, and it's clear we're almost there now. I run out the door and watch through the window as the scenery changes. There. Right in front of me. The place I've only ever seen on the screens, and the place where I'll be spending the next few days preparing for my death. The Capitol. The screens show it off but it's better when you actually see it for yourself. It's magnificent. There are so many people dressed in bright clothes, caked in make-up and trying to put up with the wigs that are way too big for them. They look like freaks. Mrs. Hudson is definitely one of the only normal ones. But then again, the way these people are dressed now is the norm where they're from. Maybe Mrs. Hudson's not normal after all.

My view is blocked almost immediately when the amount of people increases, and I'm being watched as we pull in. I manage a smile and a slight wave. That sets them off cheering and waving back in excitement. How they find entertainment in this, I will never understand. I'm joined by Sherlock, standing directly behind me and peering over my shoulder in disgust at the residents. I know how these things work. Like the Capitol, and the Capitol likes you. If I get on their good sides, I might even be able to pick up a few sponsors to help me during the arena. They'd be able to send items to me or food if I needed it. I don't think I'll get any.

We pull to a stop completely and yet again are surrounded by people trying to take our photos.

This'll be a long day.

* * *

My prep team seem nice enough. They trim my hair a bit and make me sit on a chair with nothing on so they can clean me up, and every now and again they comment on how well I'm doing. I don't learn their names, and they only talk to me on occasion. They sound weird. It takes every ounce of concentration I have in me to stop myself from listening to their ridiculous accents to stop myself from bursting into laughter. They comment on how 'normal' I look and I reply with something to please them.

"We can't all look as beautiful as those in the Capitol."

That makes them happy. It's then they decide that they're going to try to make me look just as 'fabulous' as them. I don't object, but I'm embarrassed. An older woman in almost transparent clothing walks in and stops them in time. Her dark hair's tied neatly back in a bun on the back of her head with a few stray bits at the side of her face. The clothing is so thin you can see her undergarments, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't suit her. Irene Adler. The only stylist for District Ten this year. I saw her on the screens last year as a designer, too, but she was partnered with another man I can't remember. Anyway, she looks absolutely stunning. Her shoulders upwards, at least. I don't dare look anywhere else. She makes the two who are my prep team leave and plants herself on top of a desk, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded while she leans forwards to see what she can do with me. Then she leans back, placing her hands at the back of her and palms flat on the table for support.

"John Watson, yes?" Her voice is attractive too. Why am I thinking this? I can't seem to find my voice so I nod instead. "You're pretty normal looking." I know that already. "It was easier coming up with something for that other boy, Sherlock. He's a lot more interesting."

"Sorry for boring you, Miss Adler." I try to make it sound like I'm actually quite sorry for it, but even I don't miss the harshness I added. Irene looks like a smart lady, so I doubt she missed it too. She raises an eyebrow at that and her lips twitch into some kind of smirk. She hops down from her seating position, gestures for me to stand up, which I do, and walks around me. After a few minutes of inspecting my naked self, she goes to my hair and nods her head in appreciation. Irene throws a dressing gown at me. I slip it on and cover myself up, feeling less exposed and more protected.

"Sit down, and I'll be back in a minute." She's out the door before I can say anything and back again in the blink of an eye with the clothes I was wearing on the train, looking over them and holding them at a distance. The silence is painful to my ears. "Sweaters suit you. You might look good in a suit, too. I want you to stand out, but I think simple is better with you. I do want you to look different though. That's why I'm disobeying all of the previous traditions to make you and Sherlock completely different to other tributes. Your jumper will be made of sheep wool, if you don't mind, because I need to have _some_sort of clothing relevant to your district." At least we're not going to be naked or dressed as animals. That's a plus. I understand her reasoning behind me. Everyone will be dressed all fancy and ridiculous, and I'll just be ignored. That won't go down well with the sponsors. I don't want to be an embarrassment either, so I'll look. Well. Normal. Completely normal. And hopefully, if I'm thinking on the same wave-length as her, that alone will grab their attention. They might not like it, but I'll be recognised for sure. Plain old John Watson.

"You two remind me of robots, though Sherlock more so. I want to incorporate that into it, too." She puts the coat I was wearing on the desk and focuses on the jumper. "I saw the way you walked up on that stage all emotionless. You didn't show anything, John, and that stuck in our hearts. You didn't even turn when your sister called for you. Sherlock's the same. He's intelligent, but he's not one to show his feelings." Oh God, don't dress us up in metal or something, please, no. "So I made a link. You have a few horses in your district. Horses are used a lot in fairy tales. And who usually rides upon them?"

I think back to the times my mother told me stories before I went to sleep. "Knights or princes," I answer.

"Good, very good. Now what do they sometimes wear?"

"Armour."

"Right again. Maybe you're not that stupid after all." It shouldn't affect me, but I feel a slight pain at that. I'm not the smartest person, especially if you compare me to Sherlock, but I can tell left from right, and that matters. She continues as though she doesn't care that she may have hurt a small part of me: "So here's the link: both you and Mr. Holmes will wear a piece of armour. Chainmail, to be exact. You'll look more like a cuddly knight in a sweater, but the armoured plates will show just how strong you are. Sherlock will probably upstage you and look like a prince, but he'll have a plate body and a long trench coat on. You two will look spectacular. Don't worry about the weight. It won't be proper armour, but no one will be able to tell the difference. Gold trimmed. You'll have a symbol as well, like a proper knight." I want to ask more questions, but she walks away, or rather _floats_, and is out of the door before I can even open my mouth. So I stay seated, gawking at the door. Normal. What about a prince and a knight screams 'normal' exactly? Nothing. Nothing at all.

I meet with Sherlock near our chariot a few hours later, and if I didn't already know what he'd be wearing I would've sworn he was actually a character from a story. His curls were the same as usual, but aside from his hair and face, everything looked different: a black trench coat that stopped around his knees, a silver plate body that you really would think was real, unless you looked close enough, with a golden trim around the edges, a simple pair of black trousers and black leather boots. There was a symbol etched in blue and gold on the chest plate. I expected it to be like mine, but it was completely different. His was a brain. The outline was gold, and the detail on the inside in blue.

I, on the other hand, was wearing chain mail with those sleeve things that are meant to protect your arms, and a gold sweater over the top of it. Yes, gold. It looks more gold than yellow to me. At the top left of my jumped was the image of a blue heart. Not the kind of heart people usually draw, but an actual, detailed stitching of a heart. I don't know why it had to be a heart, but I wasn't about to complain. Other than that, I wore the exact same as Sherlock, minus the trench coat. Irene was right. The armour really isn't that heavy, and it's pretty comfortable. People won't make the connection between our outfits and our districts that easily, but they might recognise later on.

"Boring," Sherlock states when Irene arrives to tell us how fantastic we look, and how especially sexy Sherlock looks. I don't notice her saying anything to me, but I don't really care about it.

Irene ignores his comment. "You'll be the tenth chariot in this due to your district. Don't show any sign of emotion. You're _robots._I know you want sponsors, but they expect you to act like machines. Be confident, yes. Don't smile. Don't make eye contact. When you reach President Snow's mansion, only look at him. Don't watch yourselves on the screen, either. It will distract you. If the audience calls your name, you're doing good. But do not turn to them. Understood?"

"Yeah. Completely."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then steps onto the chariot. I take my place beside him. When Irene leaves, I let out a nervous breath and tug on the bottom of my sweater anxiously.

"You'll do fine. Be brave."

Those words won't mean much to most people, especially coming from the teenager beside me. They'd probably take it as an insult if they thought about it. But it helps me. I straighten up and smile at him in thanks, and he chuckles very quietly. It's the only moment of happiness we have, and I'd do anything to make sure he keeps laughing like that, because we won't be able to when we've been shoved into whatever desolate place the Gamemakers choose. But the anthem plays, and we know it's time to be serious. Deadly serious. We exchange one last look before turning to the front, and I'm grabbing his sleeve before the first chariot moves. It's only for a second to calm myself down and I move my hand away just as fast. The first chariot, District One, is being driven by the horses towards Snow's mansion and there's a sudden burst of applause from the spectators. District One. Always loved by the Capitol. District Two is the next to go. Even more applause. Three, Four, Five. Gradually we make our way to the front of the queue, with Eleven and Twelve behind us. Sherlock has no problem getting into character, but it takes me a bit longer. Irene gives us both a wink, and we're on our way to see Snow.

Judging from the silence, they weren't expecting anything special after District Four. Yeah, there were a few cheers for the districts after them, but they'd died down a bit. We continue facing forwards as instructed, and finally someone shouts out 'Ten!' A bunch of others join in, and there's a chorus of cheers and shouts and loud clapping for us. _Us._ District Ten. We've attracted the attention by being simple. Or at least, I'm simple. Nothing special on my part. Sherlock must look like a bloody _god_to them with his coat flapping behind his back like that, standing perfectly still and straight. The coat's hitting against me as we ride. That's how I know. I'm more than certain no one's paying attention to me until I hear a few call out my surname. I don't look. But I'm grateful to be noticed. Sherlock's the one in the spotlight, though, and I don't want to take that away from him.

When all twelve of the chariots come to a halt at the circle, President Snow rises from his seat at the balcony and welcomes us all to the Capitol. More cheers. I think I'm going deaf. I can't hear anything else he's saying, if he's saying anything at all. To take my mind off of things, I think about home and how they're watching this right now. We probably look like idiots. I can imagine Harry saying "he looks worse than me when I'm drunk!" or something along those lines, but I realise she wouldn't be doing that. She'd be praying for me to live. Praying for the impossible.

We go around the circle one last time while the anthem sounds again, but we still don't look at ourselves on the screen. I don't even bother to take notice of what the other tributes are wearing, but I can smell smoke from somewhere. Yet another year where someone's trying to do the same as the guy from the seventy-fourth Games. That won't go down too well. Our ride is pulling into the Training Centre now, and I step off of the chariot as soon as we've entered. Bent over, hands on my knees, gasping for breath. I might have held my breath for too long outside. Either that, or I was so glad to be behind closed doors, away from the audience. The second one sounds more reasonable. My partner's still the same as always.

"That was tedious," he mutters once again as Irene joins us. She gives us the gist of what happened on the screen and who the favourites were. We still don't want to look at the other contestants. Apparently the most popular were Moran and Moriarty until we came on. We received roughly the same amount of applause, and she's certain there will be a few sponsors for us after our performance. Most of the screen time was taken up by Sally, Moran, us and one of the tributes from District Eleven. Mainly Sherlock and Moran, though I apparently got a bit of time for looking so ordinary but so extraordinary at the same time. The outfits were reasonable this year, with ours standing out because it was unexpected. She's proud of us. That means a lot. I thank her for the outfits and she says how she loved designing them for us, then she kisses Sherlock's cheek and leaves. He looks utterly clueless as to what the hell it was for and what it meant, and it sets me off in a fit of giggles again. I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched, despite the laughter I'm struggling to hold in. It's unsettling, but I don't actually see anyone looking at us when I glance around. Odd. I could've sworn we were being watched.

At least the ceremony is over now. I'm not really too worried about what we'll be wearing for the interviews, either, now that I know how our stylist works. I manage to keep my laughter under control, but my stomach's hurting from both laughing too much and being hungry. As me and Sherlock start making our way to wherever Mycroft and Stamford are meant to be, a shiver runs down my spine.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks. He didn't miss that. There's no need for him to be concerned over me; we'll be in the arena in a few days fighting for our lives. No point in worrying over the competition.

"Yeah. Just hungry," I reply. He knows I'm lying, that's for sure, but he doesn't say anything else.

Someone's watching us again. I take a quick look back over my shoulder. No one's bothering with us. Why do I feel so on edge? No, it's not that no one's watching us. It's just that they look away when I turn around. None of them are interested in us already. Are they?


	4. Chapter 4

**A.N. I'm not an expert on bows, and I don't want to be like others and have them use a bow like Katniss does. So the bow for John is temporarily. I thought he'd aim it like this because I was thinking about how he'd aim a gun, and this seemed the most suitable. It's not the normal way. But this is the Hunger Games. When has anything been normal? **

**This was originally meant to be part of chap 5 as well, but a friend I know as Hippo! Said I should split it. Too much reading otherwise.**

* * *

I never thought being in an elevator would be so much fun. Seriously, I don't want to step out of it. I'm actually tempted to just stay here and watch the people below me shrink and grow while the thing does its job just going up and down all day. I could quite happily sit here and not give a damn about any Games or dying or whatever. With five of us in here, you would've thought it'd be cramped, but it's actually very roomy. Five of us because Mrs. Hudson decided to tag along. She loved the way we looked during the entrance ceremony, saying that she was very proud of us for how we acted and that we looked 'very noble indeed.' She's a sweet lady, and I don't really want to leave her company, but we all know I have no choice in that. Odds are I won't see her again once I've entered the arena. I hope she sends us tea while we're in there. Might ease the nerves and make me feel better.

We're on the tenth floor because of our district number, and I know the rooms on each floor are the same, but _dear God, this is heaven. _I thought the train was nice, but this is way better. The amount of electronics and buttons and _everything_is so different to what we have back home. This is luxury. I really would believe I was in heaven if it wasn't for the fact that I'm going to die in a few days. That really ruins the dream. Harry would love it here. Thank God she's not the tribute. Mrs. Hudson shouts 'tea's ready, dears!' and it's enough to stop me from thinking too far into things.

Mycroft, Sherlock, Mike and Mrs. Hudson are already seated, but there's no sign of our stylist, Irene. I ask if she'll be joining us, but apparently she's busy.

"Says she's designing and getting your interview outfits made," Mike says around a mouthful chicken.

When I take my seat beside Sherlock, whatever they were talking about earlier is no longer important and the discussions changes to how we're going to go about impressing the Gamemakers and the rest of the Capitol while thinking up strategies. I focus on the food in front of me again, though I actually attempt to listen this time around. Again, I don't know what the food is, and I don't recognise any of it either, except for chunks of chicken. I shovel it into my mouth anyway, not giving a damn how it tastes. Too hungry to care right now. It's hot and my throat is burning, but I'm able to handle it once I've washed it down with some water. Sherlock's drinking coffee and not touching his food again. How's he going to survive if he doesn't eat much? I'm envious. Maybe he's training himself so that he doesn't have to eat too often during the Games. Saving his food for when he needs it. I wish I could do that. Mycroft's drinking some sort of red wine, Mike's settled for a glass of water like me, and Mrs. Hudson has tea. One of the other people in the room, an Avox, according to Mycroft, moves over with a tray of those fancy chocolates from the train. I grab at them instantly and leave them next to my plate for later. I don't want to waste any time in eating my current meal.

"I suppose you two have agreed on some sort of alliance for when you enter?" Mycroft asks after taking another sip of his wine. Sherlock answers with a nod, and I just carry on eating. We haven't exactly made an 'alliance,' but we've made an agreement on not killing each other. We don't tell him that, but he probably knows, regardless. "Good. The Capitol seems to like you two together after the entrance you made. They won't want to see you split up during the Games." They think I'm gay, don't they? Oh God they think I'm gay.

"Now's a good time to tell us what you're good at so we can work something out," Mike chips in. He's seen what I'm good at. Milking cows. I don't think I'll be able to milk cows out there, so that's out of the window. I'm pretty strong and can injure someone pretty severely. He's seen that, too. When I was younger, I liked playing around with catapults. My aim was pretty good back then, but I haven't picked one up since. That was when I was like, five, I think. Dad made me some kind of crossbow thing and I'd used that just in case I was picked for the Games. I wasn't very good at using it, and now I wish I had of practiced more. I can probably get a few good shots, if I remember how to use it correctly. I'm not sure if confidence is something. I'm glad Sherlock decides to answer first.

"I observe. I deduce. I can tell exactly which area someone has visited just by looking at their shoes and their trouser legs. I have some limited knowledge on berries and their side effects, if any. I can also tell that my brother isn't keeping to his diet." That earns him a glare from the man who won last year's Games. The glare only amuses Sherlock.

My fellow tribute already knows most things about me, but I'll need to state things again for the others. "Apparently I have good upper body strength, and I can take someone down in a matter of a few minutes. I know about berries and herbs and what's edible and not. Learnt that from the woman we go to when we're sick. I practiced medical things with her too, so that's a skill that'll come in handy. I can use slings, but I haven't used one for God knows how long. I might do alright if I can shoot something one handed. I can also milk cows." Sherlock's lips twitch up at the last part. I can see Mycroft's thinking it over in his head. Mike just looks like a very proud father, and Mrs. Hudson's calling an Avox over for another cup of tea.

After a few minutes of silence, things get awkward. I hurriedly eat the chocolates I saved to keep my mind from wandering. I hope someone sends me these in the arena. I think about leaving, but that might make things slightly worse. Finally, Mycroft breaks the silence.

"At least one of you can use a weapon properly. Sherlock could probably handle a sword or something of the like from what I've witnessed at home-" What the bloody goddamn hell does that mean? That makes me sound a lot less dangerous than I already was. Are there any other skills he doesn't plan on talking about? Oh. Right. Competitors. Enemies. Giving away everything isn't a good idea. "-But you don't want the other tributes to know that while you are training. They'll want to know everything they can about their enemies: strengths, weaknesses, skills, intelligence. Don't do anything to make them want to kill you straight off, but don't let them underestimate you. Do things you are good at. Improve on them. Learn new things, but don't get too cocky. Sherlock, I hope you're listening because this mainly applies to you. John'll do fine. Watch your mouth. Do I make myself clear?"

I nod my head in response. Sherlock dismisses it with a wave of his hand. The training doesn't actually start until tomorrow, ten a.m., but it's easier for us to discuss it now rather than later.  
"While training, do not go to the same areas. Watch each other. Pretend to be learning each other's strong points. But do _not_interact with each other. If anyone finds out that you've already got some form of agreement for when the event starts, you'll lose quickly. You're enemies until training is over."

Mike takes over the conversation now; "Make friends. Well, not friends, but get to know people rather than getting to know each other. You can do that when you're not training. If people want to make an alliance with you, don't accept automatically. Come to us if you have to and we can talk about it. You two are already going to go about this together, yeah? So you should try to make an alliance you can both agree on. It's optional, but it might be better than just moving on your own. At least you've got back up that way."

Four hours after the discussion, I'm showered, washed, dressed, well fed and very tired, so I spend the time in my chambers enjoying the comfort of my bed. I still miss my bed from home. I think I'm getting a bit homesick. Just as I'm drifting off to sleep, someone knocks on the door three times. I force myself off the bed, walk lazily to the door and open it to find a certain tribute from District Ten waiting for me. He motions for me to follow him back to where we ate, or more truthfully where _I_ ate and he didn't, so I follow him once I've grabbed my dressing gown. He's only in a plain shirt and some loose fitting trousers, himself. He was probably trying to sleep earlier, but I don't see any other signs of it. Maybe I'm just not looking hard enough.  
I slide into the seat I occupied earlier, whereas he takes the one Mycroft sat in. Now I can see just how different they actually are. It was obvious to begin with, but now that I'm actually bothering to notice, they don't really look too alike. Their speaking ways are the same, but everything else is the opposite. Sherlock looks like a twig compared to his brother. He really should eat more. Sherlock's eyes change color sometimes which is both fascinating and weird, but Mycroft's just stay one shade. His voice ruins my train of thought when he uses it.

"You don't think you have any chance of winning this," he declares, both elbows on the table in front of him, fingers steepled in front of his face like they were back on the train ride here, and his eyes staring straight into mine. It's embarrassing so I turn away slightly before replying.

"You've seen the other tributes. You know why I think this way."

"I've also seen you. I know more about you than I do the others."

"How are you not scared?" I don't know why I'm reacting like this, but he's taking everything so calmly and it's making me mad. He should be terrified. Hating this. Worried. "We're being sent to our deaths, Sherlock! Do you even _care _about those back home who'll miss you if you die? How do you think they'd feel? Do you even get scared? How can you stay so bloody calm while your life is on the line? _How?_" I'm standing now, fists clenched on the table, rage pouring out of me.

He doesn't talk for a second or two. He just observes. Great. So now he knows just how bad I can be when I'm angry. Another thing I can't keep from him. Just. Great.

"You're normal. You feel emotions. I don't see the point in them. They would make me a weak, simpleminded idiot and I would be the first to die." I stare daggers at him as soon as he mentions the word 'idiot,' and he knows he's hit a nerve; "Practically everyone's an idiot. Don't take offense." Like that helps.

"Look, if you called me here to insult me, please do me a favour and kindly _shove off. Some of us_ actually need the sleep for tomorrow. We're not all machines like you." _Robots don't get picked for the Games._That same sentence rings in my head. I start to make me way back to my room. I just want to sleep. Is that too much to ask?

"The Robot's Heart."

I pause and turn to look at him. He says it a second time and I look even more confused. He sighs, then moves so that he overtakes me on the way back to our rooms but stops by my door. I realise I haven't moved since he said those three words, but I don't know why. They don't mean much to me.

"The symbols we wore. A brain and a heart. The brain to signify my intellect, the heart to signify your courage. Irene's a smart woman. Don't you see it, John?" I must be making some sort of expression to show that I have no idea what the crap he's on about, because he sighs a second time, mutters 'idiots' and then explains it: "I'm the robot. You're the heart." He doesn't move away from my door, probably so he can laugh at me and the fact I'm still clueless. My thoughts from earlier catch up with me, and I picture Harry watching me from the centre of District Ten, fighting for my life, then getting murdered brutally right in front of her eyes. My eyes sting in the corners and I'm struggling to fight back tears. I'm absolutely furious at my partner right now. Fuming. But my fears overwhelm my anger, and when I walk into my room, Sherlock follows. I don't want to sleep alone tonight. I don't care what people think. I'll deny anything if they ask. I just need someone to stay with me. Even if they're just in the same room with me. I don't want to be alone any more.

I'm curled up in bed with the other boy behind me, my back against his chest and we're just managing to fit together perfectly. The extra warmth and the single arm around me are soothing, and I feel a bit better now. I still can't forgive him for the way he's acting and taking this, but I don't feel like arguing with him any further. We're not friends or anything. We're merely acquaintances. But even at a strangers touch, I feel as though I can make it through the night. I urge him to try to sleep, too, but he doesn't reply. I can feel myself drifting off properly this time, and before I slip into a dream state, I hear Sherlock mutter something to himself. I think he's talking to himself, but it might actually be directed at me.

"I didn't say I wasn't scared."

* * *

****  
I wake up to find that Sherlock's already left. Part of me is glad that he's already gone, because it means he's preparing himself for the training that starts today. It's around eight o'clock right now, judging by the lighting outside, and training starts at ten sharp. This will be the first time we meet the rest of the tributes, but not to chat and make friends. The training sessions are for us to learn new things that'll help us survive when we enter the arena, but they're also pretty intimidating. The Careers already know how to use weapons, from what I understand, so they might think the sessions a chance to try and scare everyone. We can also use this opportunity to see what a tribute is capable of, and I personally want to see if anyone will be willing to form an alliance with me. Not just anyone, God, no, I don't want to be with the Careers if I can help it, but I won't be able to survive out there on my own. I'm going to die anyway, but I'd rather die at the hand of someone I know rather than a complete stranger. Three days of training. Three days of improving. Three days until we start fighting for our lives.

I take a quick shower and select the clothing I want to wear from that fancy wardrobe in my room: a plain white long sleeved shirt, a comfortable pair of black trousers and a pair of black boots. I don't have a clue what's in the training section. We don't get shown that on the screens. Overdoing the outfit would just be stupid, and Sherlock would comment on it later. I make my way out of my room to eat whatever meal we're having today, but the nerves of the Games are making me feel sick, so I settle with a few slices of toast and jam with a cup of tea on the side. Sherlock's actually eating today, even though it's only a loaf of bread. He's getting something in him so I won't complain. No sign of Mycroft and Stamford yet, but Mrs. Hudson is offering us tea and coffee again so we're hydrated before we leave. She's already got a cup ready for me, just how I like it, so I graciously accept. I really will miss that woman. Sherlock waves his hand in the air, beckoning me to him. I slip into the seat opposite him and take small sips of my tea while he talks.

"They want us separated. So for the next three days, we do not communicate in any way whatsoever, other than the occasional 'hate glare' when one of us does something remarkable." He pauses to see what I have to say, but I don't offer a response, so he gives up waiting. "You want to form an alliance. I'll offer my services, but do not trust the other tributes."

"What, so, basically, trust you and no one else?" I ask.

"Precisely," he says.

"You do realise I can't trust anyone _including_you, right?" I say. It's true. No one can be trusted when we get there. What makes him think he can be treated differently?

"You trusted me enough last night to let me into your bed." Mrs. Hudson smiles when he says that as if she understands something, but I don't get what. Unless she's thinking. . . Oh, that's exactly what she's thinking, isn't it? That we were together romantically last night and that we –

"It's not what you're thinking, Mrs. Hudson," I cut in before I embarrass myself further. Her smile only grows wider.

"Oh, no, it's fine dear. I live near two. Don't think I'll judge you!" I hide my head in shame, much to the amusement on the other boy. We wait for Mrs. Hudson to leave before we start talking again, but just as I regain what little confidence I had left in me, Mycroft walks in with Mike, yet again talking in hushed tones. I stand to offer my seat to Mycroft. He only raises a questioning eyebrow, but eventually looks towards his little brother and suddenly _he_ understands too. Dear lord, _nothing happened. _Why isn't Sherlock denying it?

Mike's clueless. He just occupies the seat next to Mycroft once I've changed to sit next to the other tribute and eats what's left of the toast and jam. More slices are brought over immediately by an Avox.

"You were in the middle of a conversation. Do carry on. Feel free to tell your _mentors_this time," Mycroft says.

Sherlock snorts. He has a habit of doing that around his brother, I notice. "As I was _saying,_" he continues, "I do prefer to work on my own, but you might actually prove to be useful. If you want me as an ally, please don't be afraid to ask. If you do accept, you can choose whoever else you want to ally with. Just don't pick those idiots from the Career districts or anyone who might slow us down. I trust you to make the right choice in this matter."

"Then I'll accept you as an ally. I don't think anyone would want me for an ally, so we might be out of luck, there." We sit in complete silence for another few minutes, finishing off the rest of our meals. "So we ignore each other, go to different stations, act like we hate each other's guts, look for possible allies, and then go back to normal when we're here?"

"Yes," Sherlock says.

"Sounds like a plan," I say, pushing myself and my chair away from the table. We have an hour left until training, and I don't quite know what else to do, but I'm sure I'll think of something to pass the time. We might even get there early. I return to my room so I can clean myself up, brush my teeth. That's really all that needs doing. Not even four minutes have passed. I heave a sigh and sit back on my bed, watching the sun rise over the Capitol through my window. I may not ever see this view again, so I try to take as much of it in as possible. Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door and asks if I'm ready, to which I reply with a simple 'yes,' and I'm out of the room, walking with Sherlock and Mike to the elevator that'll take us below the building to the training room. Mycroft has some 'urgent matters to attend to.' If that involves sponsors, he probably won't be too busy.

A majority of the tributes are already in the training room when we arrive. The only ones who haven't turned up yet are those from districts One, Two, Three and Six. Someone pins the number '10' to my shirt, then do the same for Sherlock, and we join the circle of competitors, waiting for the others to arrive. There are more stations than I thought. Weapons are stacked and lined accordingly, experts are at their stations watching and waiting for the training to begin. I see a station for shooting with a bow and arrow, but I'm not confident in that. I'll only have a decent shot if I have a slingshot or a crossbow of some kind. I see a section for slingshots, but no sign of crossbows in the archery area. A spear might be my next best option. If they put them into the arena this year.

District Six arrives first, followed by District Two. Four minutes to ten, and the next set of tributes, Three, file in. Lastly, the two from District One arrive. They were almost late, annoying the head trainer a bit. They don't apologise. We can go to whatever stations we like as long as we're going by our mentor's instructions. For me, that means not going to the station Sherlock's at. We can't fight with other tributes, either. What a relief. I don't think I could handle getting in a fight with most of these people, especially not that Moran character. It gives me goose bumps just thinking about what he might be capable of. When the head trainer finished her speech, we're allowed to move on our own. Sherlock heads for the section about edible berries. I, on the other hand, go over to the camouflage area.

It's tricky to get this right, but I try my hardest and that's all the tutor cares about with me. I attempt painting a forest look on myself, those green and brown and black patterns that seem to blend in with greenery. I fail miserably. It's taken me about fifteen minutes to paint myself to a suitable standard, a nod of approval from the tutor, so I start on another setting: rocks. I can't get that right, either, but the girl here with me is proving to be very capable. It's the girl from District Three, the one who was in tears and looked terrified. Molly? Molly Hooper I think? She's enjoying this part from the looks of it. Enjoying her time painting herself in different colors instead of worrying over the threat of the games. She's so into it, in fact, she doesn't even notice my presence. I move around so I can stand next to her and watch how she does it.

"You couldn't possibly teach me how to do that, could you?" I ask with a laugh, but I startle the poor girl and she jumps backwards, staring at me with wide eyes. Was she hoping no one would speak to her? She calms down a bit after taking a breath or two, then smiles very sweetly and picks up a brush.

"The only advice I can give is that you try to make it look as realistic as possible." She shows me her arm, decorated beautifully to look like normal leaves in a bush or tree. They're so detailed that I'd have thought she _was_ a tree if it wasn't for the fact she actually had limbs, a face, a voice and a beating heart. I spend the remainder of my time at the station chatting idly to her, learning from both her and the expert situated at the station. By the time I change section, I learn that she's a very shy girl but a very clever one at that. Like me, she's just an ordinary human. She admits to taking a bit of a liking to Sherlock, saying he looked like a prince at the opening ceremony and commenting on how 'absolutely stunning' he looked. She says that she didn't expect me to look how I did, either. "You reminded me of a machine, actually. A machine that actually has a heart. I saw you keeping your emotions in. Not many others did, but I saw it. You're a machine who's able to keep his feelings bottled up. I admire that. It worked well last night. I'm actually kind of jealous." She blushed and ran off to another station before I could thank her. On my list of possible allies, she's at the top of my list. I haven't spoken to anyone else yet, and until I've seen what more she can do, I can't say I want her for sure. I switch stations with Sherlock, _tsk_ing at him when he walks too close to me. He ignores it.

I pass the test on the edible plants with ease thanks to what I learnt back home. I learn about a few more that I wasn't told about though, and make a mental note to go back over them later before I sleep. I plan on spending a whole hour at the stations I need to visit most, but I still have half an hour left here so I take the time to observe the others. Sherlock's complaining about how there will never be a need for luminous pink when it comes to camouflage. Molly's trying her hand at spear throwing with the male from her district. She can hit the targets, just not from a long distance. The male on the other hand, whose name has escaped me, somehow, manages to pierce the head of a dummy from a few good metres away. The two from District One, who should be good at handling weapons, are making complete fools of themselves by holding the bow and arrows wrong. The two from District Two are doing alright for themselves. Moran's focusing on weights at the moment, and James has taken to tying knots. The taller of the two excels in strength. Being killed by him is not what I want. It looks like it'd be painful. The Careers from Four aren't doing badly, either. I realise they'll have an advantage over a lot of us, being from the fishing district. They'll be able to swim and catch fish a lot easier than we will. We're screwed if the Games are held underwater. Everyone else seems to be doing fine. The only ones with problems are those from District One. It's a good thing the Capitol can't see the training that goes on; they'd be losing sponsors easily.

For the next hour, I stay with the station that teaches about fires. It's frustrating work. "Can't just give us matches to make it easier?" I ask out loud, not really expecting a reply. Someone chuckles behind me and I'm aware that I'm not alone. The District Two Career tribute, Sebastian Moran, is having just as much trouble as I am when it comes to starting fires, so we both give up and decide to try one together to get the hang of it. He's got a low voice for his age, and he's taller than I'd thought. He's like a giant when he leans over to give it another shot. I thought Careers would be stuck up, brutally fierce and just plain annoying, but I'm enjoying this one's company. He's pretty decent, too, once you get past the whole 'if-you've-got-a-problem-kindly-fuck-off-before-I-beat-the-living-shit-out-of-you' stage. The reason he volunteered this year was because he'd planned to go with Moriarty from the start. James can be childish sometimes but he's dead serious about the Games. They've been preparing for this together for years, and they decided this year was their chance. It's my turn to try to get the fire burning now. We're careful not to give anything away about our strategies and talents, but it's easy to talk to this guy. If we weren't separated by district numbers and the weight of the Games, we'd probably be good friends. I know I'd have his back. But I promised Sherlock I wouldn't trust anyone other than him. I let out a small sigh. Moran's a Career. He wouldn't want me in his alliance. That's one person I'm certain of. I finally manage to create a small flame on a pile of wood, cheering after doing so. Moran grins and asks me to help him out now, which I do gladly. It takes longer to do it a second time, but on the fourth go he gets a spark going and we're both congratulating each other on a job well done.

We take our lunch break, all twenty-four of us, and I'm invited to go and sit with Sebastian, James, Carl, and Violet, but I decline for today, saying I'm going to sit with Molly instead to ask her what's so amazing about Sherlock. Seb laughs at that, asking if I'll sit with them tomorrow instead.

"I'll think about it."

The other two Careers are sitting with Sherlock and the District Three boy at a separate table, while Molly's sitting by herself eating sandwiches. Sherlock looks bored, then catches my eye, sneers at me, and starts shouting about how much of an idiot Anderson is. A battle of words breaks out, and to me it seems like Sherlock's winning, because when he says "at least you two are finding time to have fun while we all suffer. Are those even your own trousers, Donovan, or did your wardrobe decide to change to suit Anderson's style?" He's kicked from the table in an instant, walking off to sit alone.

"He's very smart," Molly says in admiration. I can't drop the act now.

"He's also a jerk," I retort, hopefully loud enough for him to hear. I see him stiffen but he doesn't pay any interest to me otherwise. Just as well. I think we're convincing enough to make people believe we're not on good terms, but it might take another day to make sure. Molly doesn't like my comment too much; apparently there's nothing wrong with Sherlock other than his bluntness. This is an act, I tell myself. There really is nothing wrong with him. The lad from District Five, Henry Knight, joins our table once Molly's gone through her first sandwich. He doesn't seem like a bad guy, either. I can't afford to make friends here. I'll only be trying to kill them later. He's cheerful, if a bit scared. His father was killed when he was younger by a 'gigantic hound,' so either they owned a pretty huge dog or his father took him over the border of their district to get food. I wouldn't be surprised if there were mutants lurking out there. I don't want to press him any further on the subject, so instead we talk about tea and the different types here in the Capitol. Henry likes his with sugar, whereas Molly prefers coffee. I say that I prefer my tea without sugar and Henry looks absolutely mortified.

"How? How can you not have sugar in your tea?" He breaks into a laugh, making me and Molly burst into hysterics. The tributes from District Six are glaring at us. That only makes us laugh harder, and eventually Moran on the other table joins in. He doesn't even know what's going on and he's laughing.

I reply with "I just don't like sugar in the tea," and we start talking about coffee and chocolate and the possibilities of them putting that kind of stuff in the bags when we enter. Not likely.

I take another shower when I'm back in my room, allowing the water to rinse off whatever paints and sweat are still clinging to me. The hot water is soothing and refreshing. I try not to think about how much Harry would enjoy this part of the Games, so instead I focus on which stations I'll go to tomorrow and who possible allies could be. Molly and Moran are the best candidates so far. I like Henry too, but I don't think he's quite all there in the head. He might be one of those who go mad half way through, and that's a risk I'm not willing to take. Moran might actually want me to team up with him, James and District Four, though I can't see myself in a Career pack. It might help with sponsors, but I don't want my home district to see me with them. The other tribute from Molly's section might be useful, especially with that spear of his. I'll ask Molly tomorrow if she can get him to go to the knot station when I'm there tomorrow. I'll officially make up my mind by then, and that'll be the last station I go to. I suppose I can invite Sherlock over, too. We're meant to stay away from each other, but it'll look suspicious if we don't end up at the same place at least once.

So tomorrow, I will focus on the slingshots, the knots, blowguns, weightlifting and snares. I'll ask Sherlock which ones he's going to, as well, so if we're going to the same stations I can try to change my plans around.

I let the machines dry me off, put on the clothes I wore on the train and head down to the dining area, where only Mycroft is sitting. He doesn't look up but he notices I'm here and calls me over.

"I've heard you're doing well in there, though fires are not your strong point," he says, still not bothering to make eye contact.

"I guess so. It's harder than it looks. I've met some of the others though, and I think I want Mo-"

"Do not get involved with District One or Two," he cuts me off.

"Why not? They look like they'd be alright, even if they are Careers."

"They are not to be trusted."

I pause for a minute to let it sink in. "What about Molly Hooper, then?"

Now he lifts his eyes to meet mine, but they quickly return back to whatever was commanding his attention in the first place. "She's suitable. You also want to meet the boy from the same district. He'll make a good addition, I believe." He's up and gone by the time Sherlock arrives. Perfect timing. I explain to him that Mycroft doesn't want us to get involved with the first two districts, and it's the first time I've actually heard him agree with his brothers ideas. Sherlock's been watching them closely, especially District Two. He sat with District One to try and learn a few things but the endless chattering about how they were going to win and be the best tributes the Capitol has ever seen started to 'piss him off, quite frankly.' The only person he's alright with at the moment is the boy from District Three. Lestrade, Sherlock says. What is it with people and odd names? First Sherlock, then Anderson who doesn't even have another name, then Moriarty, then Moran, and now Lestrade. Can people not name their children normally?

"Normal is dull, John. Do keep up."

I tell him about Molly, though he's dubious at first. He was watching her with the edible foods and insects, and she only slipped up once which is a great deal better than what other tributes did. He acknowledges the idea but doesn't comment on it until I talk about Moran probably wanting me.

"Don't," he states quite simply. He brings his legs to his chest and hugs them close. He sat like this while at the fire making station this morning.

"That's what Mycroft said, too. You two are really alike in some ways." He cringes at that.

Seb's actually pretty lethal with a bow and arrow as well as with knives and swords. Sherlock says that if I ally with him, I can't expect him to do the same. Seb's incredibly loyal to Moriarty, and if someone ticks him off, that person will die painfully. Forming an alliance with them and then breaking it off would most likely result in Moran turning on you and beating you to a pulp before you can even say you're sorry. He'd prefer to have Molly Hooper over Sebastian Moran. That's sorted.

"You're expecting to meet me at one of the stations tomorrow so we can discuss things," he comments, never taking his eyes off of me.

"I was thinking, if you agreed to have Molly and Lestrade for allies, we would be able to plan a few things before the arena. As precautions. We can pretend to hate each other as much as we have to, but we'd have to fill them in on it and see who's good at what."

"What station do you have in mind?"

"Knots."

"Perfect."

He's going to focus on the edible insects station, hammock making, shelters and snares tomorrow. I have no doubt that'll he'll master them all in a matter of minutes. We agree to make the knot tying our last stop.

I'm just hoping Lestrade and Molly accept our request and that Moran won't have it out for me when I decline his offer for an alliance.


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N. Originally the second half of chapter four, but was told to split it, so I'm sorry for it being shorter than the previous chapters. We're getting cloooooser!**

* * *

Our second day of training is pretty much the same as the first, flying around to different stations and practicing skills until we're confident in them. I don't go to any part Moran goes to; I don't think I can face him just yet. I do end up at the same station as that Lestrade guy, so I use the chance to talk to him about how easy the weights are to lift, and he agrees. Because they _are_easy to lift. I think I'm just a bit more capable than him, and after thirty minutes of weightlifting we decide to never do anything of the sort ever again.

"Remind me not to underestimate anything when we're in there. I won't ever talk about weights in the same way again." He accepts when I ask him to join me at the knot tying station later, but only if his arms don't fall off first.

The person he volunteered for was a cousin of his who was ill. They would've been able to survive the Games had they been healthy, but Lestrade didn't want to see them go through that, so he sacrificed himself. He's got a strong heart.

The slingshots take a while to get used to since I haven't used one for a long time, but I get the hang of it and I'm just as good as I was back then, hitting targets where the eyes would be and occasionally hitting the location where the left temple on the head would be. I'm the only person to visit this area today. The tributes from Nine, Eleven and Twelve visited it yesterday. No one's paying attention to me other than Sherlock, occasionally. For once I'm glad I go unnoticed. It's like that for most of the day. I accidentally meet Moran at the snares, which is when he decides to pose the question about alliances.

"Sorry, I've been told not to form alliances, but thanks anyway, and good luck," I lie. He walks off to see Sherlock at the hammocks. I can tell he's asking for an alliance too, on behalf of Moriarty, but the shake of Sherlock's head tells me he's turned down the offer too. I'm tempted to smile at him for doing so. I don't. Gotta keep up the act.

Molly and Lestrade join me over by the knot tying area with Sherlock following behind them, not taking notice of me. He's better at this acting thing. Another advantage. He'd be able to get sponsors so easily with his acting skills. Lestrade's already accepted our offer for an alliance, and Molly looks over the moon when we ask her, too.

"I wasn't expecting anyone to ask, so thank-you! I'll try not to let you down," she says cheerily. She'd make a fantastic edition to any alliance. Why did no one else ask her? Oh, right. Because she's like me. We're normal, and we're rarely noticed. Though if I could make an impression on the careers, surely she could too? Nothing makes sense. But it's the Hunger Games. When does anything make sense? We take our time learning how to tie knots, Sherlock looking like an expert after three minutes of it. Me and Molly are doing alright, but Lestrade gets stuck a lot and Sherlock gets impatient and comments on how "even those District One idiots can do better than you," and for some reason that's enough to get him going. He's not mad at Sherlock for saying that, I don't think. More like he's determined to master this, and after forty minutes or so he's doing better than me and Molly combined. Definitely a good choice for an ally. A group of four will do better than three or five. Four sets of eyes are better than three, and we can ration food better with four. There would be less food if we had five. It's a decent number. It's about time we started discussing how we'd do things before our time is up, so I'm the first to bring up the subject.

"We have no idea what the layout this year is or where we'll be, so we won't have much information to go on. But I've got an idea for after the gong sounds."

All three pairs of eyes are trained on me now, with Sherlock keeping up his act of hatred and rolling his eyes.

"None of these guys know we're an alliance, right?" No one responds, so I take that as confirmation. "We can't let them know. Thanks to Sherlock, they count us two out as being allied with each other. You two can say that you're allies and just trying to find out about the competition, but you can't mention anything about this, alright?" They both nod. "Thanks. Now as for the arena-"

"John, no one made you leader," Sherlock says bluntly and silence falls over us. I'm not the leader, I know, but I'm trying to keep us alive, or at least give us a better chance of doing so. I go back to focusing on tying a difficult knot, knowing they're all watching me still. It's five minutes before I'm told to continue and I avoid all eye contact with Sherlock. He knows I'm only trying to help. That might be why he asked me to carrying on, but I don't really want to now. If I do, he'll say that my idea is stupid and that we'll just die in the first day. Greg's the one who convinces me to go on and explain. He actually seems interested. Even Molly's avoiding Sherlock now.

"I was thinking we should keep up the solo act in the arena on the first day. Yeah, we have no idea what our situation would be, but we can meet up later if we don't get killed. When the gong sounds, run to whatever's on the right of you. Get far away from the center, don't bother with the supplies right at the middle, even if they tempt you. If you see a bag in the direction you're running, grab it. If there's a weapon in it, try not to lose it. Even if it's just a small knife, it's better than nothing." I make sure my voice is barely above a whisper. Don't want the others hearing our plans. We pretend to be focusing on a knot so we don't draw suspicion. "We'll all be separated for a while if we do this and from what I've seen, you guys are pretty damn capable of taking care of yourselves. So on the first night, don't try to meet up. Find a source of water and we'll be alright. If anyone else dies near the edge, look for the hovercraft and we can try to meet there. Does that sound alright with you?" Sherlock has objections but he doesn't raise them. Molly and Greg are fine with it. I'm not sure the plan will work, but it's the only plan any of us have come up with. It's risky. They know that. We finish with the knots, the expert satisfied with our progress. Tomorrow, we have our private sessions so we can be rated.

God, I hope this works.

* * *

****  
Day three. We're all sitting around a table while we wait to be called in. Each of us gets the chance to perform in front of the Gamemakers, showing off our skills so they can judge us and give us a rating out of twelve. It's rare for people to get an eleven or twelve, but the Careers get roughly eights and tens. I don't think District One will get that high unless they were holding back during training. They probably weren't. The Careers show off what they can do to intimidate us. They just looked like they'd signed up for the luxury part of things. Idiots.

The first tribute is called in from their district, and the rest of us wait in silence. We're too nervous to talk about anything. Occasionally, I catch Molly glancing over at Sherlock and Lestrade glancing over at me. That's about as much contact as we have during lunch. No one suspects a thing. We don't see the first tribute return when the second is called. They're taken back to their floor. Being District Ten, me and Sherlock will have to wait longer than others. Those with two of tributes of the same gender had to flip a coin to see who'd go in first. Otherwise it's male then female. This is the Hunger Games. They couldn't think of a more unusual way to decide?

I watch Moran walk off for his private session. James sits still, twirling an apple around in his hand and then stabbing it with a fork. The apple didn't know what was coming. I hope he does something better than stabbing apples. That won't get very far. I flex my fingers by my side, nerves creeping into me. I want a good score from this, but not too high. High will make me a target. I'll go unnoticed with a low one. Moran'll score high. Judging by the state of that apple, Moriarty could get a five at least, depending on what he shows them. I still don't know what I'm going to do. Throw things. Shoot things with a slingshot. Request for a cow to be brought in so I can milk it. I'm at a loss. Maybe I could just sit in the corner and no one will notice me. I stop moving my fingers around nervously and clench my hand into a fist. Would that actually work? Hiding from them? It would show that I'm not exactly easy to catch and that'd go down well. Knots or hand-to-hand combat? I never did go to the section on fighting with fists and feet or whatever they do there, but I'm pretty good at it. Will they have any assistants for me to work with? I don't think they will, but it's worth a shot. I could try hitting all the vital parts of a dummy and knocking it backwards. I didn't even notice James go in. How long have I been sitting here thinking about this? It's Lestrade's turn, now. He might use spears. Molly'll camouflage or maybe show off her knowledge on plants and insects. Sherlock, I'm not sure of. District Eleven are good at climbing in general, so that might get them somewhere. Everyone seems to have some special talent. Everyone but me. John Watson. The most normal person to ever be entered into the Hunger Games. That's my opinion. There might have been people worse than me, but through all the games I've watched. . . Well.

The waiting game drags on and on until finally it's my turn. I take my time and only enter when I get confidence, but the Gamemakers are no doubt tired out from watching everyone previously. I'll think of something in a minute, I'm sure of it. Hiding is definitely the best option right now.

"John Watson, District Ten," I announce to them, but none face me. I look for a station I'm most confident in and head to the snares. An idea comes to my head. Something my father taught me before he died. Archery isn't my strong point. I won't get any points for accuracy, but it's worth the practice. I skipped this area. I change my mind about the snares and head towards the rack which holds a metal bow and multiple steel arrows. I lift the bow and take a single arrow, feeling it in my hand. This won't go well. I can aim, just not accurately enough. I'll be lucky to get a decent hit. I'll be the laughing stock if I get this wrong, but I find it easier this way. It's the closest thing I have to a crossbow, and I'm willing to take the chance. I make my way over to one of the dummies, then turn back on my heel and walk a few metres away. I place to arrow against the string, making sure my feet are shoulders width apart, and visualise the shooting and the target line. Bow in my right hand, I aim it at the target. I can't shoot this way. Too difficult. In this sense, I am different from other tributes. I twist my hand so that the bow is horizontal instead of the way you're meant to hold it, and pull the string and arrow back so that I can be at eye-level with the arrow tip and the target. For me, I can aim better this way. It reminds me more of a crossbow. I attempt to aim it properly but I'm struggling. Nerves are getting the better of me yet again. Deep breaths. There. I relax my right hand, find the confidence I need and released the arrow. It hits just the neck area, but not dead on. Close enough for my taste. I turn my head in the direction of the Gamemakers. Two are watching. Going unnoticed. Good. Just what I want. I collect another arrow and reposition myself, aiming for the head. I'm still off. It flies slightly to the left, and even though I wasn't aiming for it, I hit the temple point. Third arrow now. From the last two, it looks like the arrows tend to steer to the left rather than going straight, so I aim to the right a bit more. Let it loose. Watch it soar right into the heart of the dummy. Four spectators. One making a whistling sound. They're bored. Sherlock-bored. Might as well try to entertain them. The last arrow on the rack, I place against the bow. Back into position. Aim slightly to the right and at the hip. Let go. If I do this in the arena, that is, if I even get some form of bow, it'd be incredibly painful for either gender. _That_attracts their attention. One of them chokes. I'm told I can leave now, so I place the bow back on its rack, stand to attention and make a quick bow to them.

"Thank-you for watching."

When I leave, I can hear a few murmurs, then laughter. I attracted maybe a bit too much attention. So much for going unnoticed. Sherlock should have better luck. He'll amuse them.  
Sherlock returns to our floor a while later with a smug look on his face. I wear a matching expression, and he takes a seat on the couch next to me. There are still four tributes left to be tested, so we've got a while before the ratings are shown on the screen. I'm really hoping for a low score. Becoming a target in these Games is not part of my plan just yet. Sherlock will get a fantastic score. I'm tempted to ask what he did, but at the same time I already know. Odds are, he's worked out what I've done already. When Mycroft joins us, I know he's learnt of it. Mike just pats me on the back and ruffles Sherlock's hair. He doesn't like that.

Hours pass, and the whole group is seated on the sofa, waiting for the moment we've been dreading. Scores. As usual, it goes in district order, showing the faces of the tributes and then what they've scored underneath. Mrs. Hudson turns the screen on and we wait. We just wait.  
The first name up is Anderson, being the male from District One. He gets a six. Really? For a Career that is way too low. Whether it's on purpose or not, I'm not sure, but I highly doubt it. Careers show off. Careers get high scores. This is just ridiculous. Sally pulls a nine. At least someone is doing their district proud.

District Two. I can't watch this but I need to know what to expect from the arena. Seb's first. It seems like his score stays on the screen forever. I can't blink. My eyes stay glued to the screen. Eleven. _Eleven._That will get him sponsors. It'll also scare the crap out of everyone. Even Sherlock tenses beside me. We know he's strong. We know just how intimidating he can be. This is the icing on the cake. Neither of us speak. Too shocked for words. James is on the screen, now, and under his name is a ten. Fourteen with a score of ten. The odds are in their favour. No one was expecting it.

Greg and Molly are up next, and Greg scores an easy eight. When I see him on the second day in the arena, I'll congratulate him and ask him how he managed to get a score like that. Molly nets a seven. Sherlock's glad with that result. What's with all the high scores? I won't complain. I'm pleased for District Three. Just worried over the others.

District Four, and Carl's picture shows on the screen. Eight. Violet has an eight, too. Careers getting between eight and ten is normal. That's the only reason I'm laughing right now, because out of all the Career tributes, Anderson is the only one to not live up to expectations. My partner's chuckling to himself, too. He's realises why I'm laughing and it doesn't take long for the rest to figure it out. There's an unfamiliar voice joining in. I don't recall anybody with that tone of voice. Is Mycroft laughing too? Yes, but it's not him I'm searching for. I glance around and find a man I've never seen before sitting next to Irene. He must be the designer Irene requested help from. She was struggling with the designs for our interviews and finally admitted that she couldn't handle it by herself. So what does she do? Get her gay neighbour to help pitch designs. Gay. Yes, he is very gay, and no, I am not interested. Even if I was that way, I wouldn't try, anyway. He's got a boyfriend. Apparently he snores.

I almost miss the results for District Five, but Henry's flashes off just as I turn around so I got a glimpse. Seven. The twelve year old female gets a five. Not too much to worry about. I was hoping Anderson would have the lowest score. That would affect his reputation. If he had any to begin with.

Both of Sixes tributes get a six, ironically. Dimmock from Seven gets a seven. Also ironic. The other tribute scores a six. Dimmock's partner is a female who looks about fourteen, but I hadn't taken any notice of her. I didn't even see her, really, during the training sessions. Unnoticed.  
Eight and Nine aren't too bad. Only one low score, and that's from the sixteen year old girl from District Eight. She scores a three, the twelve year old beating her with an impressive nine. The fifteen year olds from District Nine pull a respectful seven and eight. This year's competitors will be tough to beat.

Our turn. My face appears on screen. I look terrible compared to the others. Couldn't get a better photo? I don't like seeing myself up there, and now everyone is waiting to see what score I get. Everyone in Panem has tuned in to see the scores of this year's tributes, and now it's my turn to be judged. Time is literally standing still for me. And there it is.

Ten.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't as shocked as fuck right now. Mrs. Hudson and Stamford are cheering, Irene's congratulating me. But I can't hear anything. I can't see much, either, except for that huge 'ten' underneath my picture. What brings me back to reality is Sherlock's hand around my wrist, giving a tight squeeze in both congratulations and worry. He shouldn't worry about me. Why would he do that? We don't even know each other. Yet he's with me every night comforting me. I've been lying to myself this whole time. He doesn't have 'friends,' but he does have me. And that counts, doesn't it? Just like I have him?

Sherlock's on the screen. Everyone's settled down to see how he does. Mycroft won't show his worry, but it's obvious he's feeling it. Sherlock's hand is still around my wrist, and despite his grip I manage to escape it so that they're linked together. His face says 'bored' but the strength in his grip is saying otherwise. He'll do well. He would have had no problem in there. I hold onto his hand to support him. It's reassuring me, too. This is our reality. This is our fate. The scores don't tell us who's going to win and who's going to die first. They give people something to bet on. My bet would be on Sherlock. The whole room explodes into cheering, congratulating, happiness. The whole room excluding us two. The two being sent to their deaths.

Sherlock Holmes scores a twelve.


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N. The designs came randomly to my head. I might draw them at some stage. I had a bit of a block at first, but GUESS WHAT THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL START? ;DDD Thank-you to all of my betas on TPM, including BB13, Suicide, Roh, Rooty and Hime-sama. Also a big thank-you to Joanna who's put up with me talking about this non-stop and has been spammed with my previews many times. **

**Gosh I am so lazy.**

* * *

The ten and the twelve stay in my head, and Sherlock's hand stays in mine. We're pretty much avoiding the rest of our group as we don't really know how to react. My ten got them excited. Sherlock's twelve tipped them off. We'll be targets for certain. Especially Sherlock. But it means that we're both good contenders, and it should land us a sponsor or two, maybe three if we're lucky. Even with our high scores, the focus will be on Moran. Careers usually win. Just because Sherlock gained one point more than him doesn't change the facts of our situation. Moran will get the most sponsors. Moran will get the most help. Moran will win. We don't even see the last four results.

We're probably cutting off each other's circulation, but we don't move away. We're still not exactly friends. He's made that clear enough, but if it wasn't for him being there, I'd have fainted by now. Isn't he supposed to be the 'robot' in our image? Emotionless? I'm the heart in this, not him, and yet I can feel just how _scared_he is. He's not showing it through facial expressions. I didn't think he was capable of feelings. You learn something new every day.

I have a headache. It's hurting. The voices around me aren't helping when I can't hear them properly. They're speaking gibberish and I can't understand what they're trying to say. Irene's standing in front of us with the other designer, trying to talk to me. What are they saying? I try lipreading. Not helping. Something about interviews. Outfits. More congratulations. I turn to Sherlock. He's not listening either, but whether he's doing it on purpose or not, I can't tell. Zoned out? I don't think so. Irene grabs my free hand and tries to pull me into a hug, but Sherlock goes with me and we're both being crushed by the designers. That snaps me out of my trance. I can't help but laugh and utter a 'thank-you' every now and again. Sherlock watches me and manages a sigh. He's broken from his trance as well. We're still holding hands but not as tightly as before.

It's a few minutes before I begin to hear what the others are saying, and most of it is about how proud they are or how they'll coach us tomorrow or what we'll eat tomorrow or about sponsors and how many we'll get. Caesar Flickerman will be interviewing us. How old is he, anyway? He's been doing these interviews for ages. More than sixty years or so now. How is it possible for him to still be alive? I don't know what age he started the interviews at, but he's still doesn't really happen in our district. Then again, Caesar _is_from the Capitol. They live better than us in general.

So tomorrow, Mycroft and Stamford will coach us for the interviews which will take place the night after said coaching. I'm not worried about them. More worried about what Irene'll have us dress as. Maybe this time she'll stick us in pure armour, and not the fake kind. Or stick a crown on Sherlock's head. Please let it not be too ridiculous.

I'm struggling to sleep yet again tonight, what with the scoring and the nerves. Sherlock's sitting in my room in a seat by the window, staring blankly outside. He doesn't go back to his room because of the way I'm feeling. He didn't sleep last night, either, and it's starting to get annoying. He needs the rest before he goes in. I'm a different case; I can't sleep due to nightmares. Though even that's a lie. Since Sherlock's stayed around, I haven't felt alone, and when I wake up in a cold sweat, he's always there to tell me to go back to sleep. My nightmares aren't real. The Games are. That's what I focus on, and that's what sends me to sleep. Tonight is different. No matter how many times he says it, I can't even close my eyes for more than ten minutes.

"You're wondering how I got a score that high," he says after my sixth attempt of trying to get some shuteye.

"Sort of. I think I know how you did it, but I don't know how it could have gotten you _that_high of a score," I reply. I sit up in the bed, running my hands through my hair multiple times before I can look at him. He doesn't look back.

"Enlighten me."

"Well my guess is that you did that thing you do where you observe people and suddenly know their entire life story while swinging a sword around with accuracy."

"Accurate description."

I blink. "I'm right?" I wasn't actually expecting to get it that quickly. He smirks but continues watching through the window.

"Partially." And we leave it at that. I don't sleep for a while, but I'm grateful for the small breaks I get where I actually do fall asleep. It's not often, but it's enough to stop me collapsing from exhaustion.

By morning, I've eaten what food they've given, dressed myself, showered and made sure I'm calm enough to get through the coaching on how I'll act during the interviews. Me and Sherlock are being coached separately so any reactions to questions and answers are genuine. Mycroft will be telling us how to sit properly and how to talk and making sure we don't look like slackers, whereas Mike's going to help us figure out how to win over the crowds. Sherlock needs that most. We don't need him insulting the whole of the Capitol. That won't get us anywhere. He takes off with Mycroft while I spend my time with Mike.

"So you know why you're here," he starts with just before we sit opposite each other.

"Yeah," I laugh uneasily, "because my name got picked out of the bowl of death." He doesn't laugh with me. Instead he wears a serious expression, one I've never seen him use before. I gulp. Not the right way to start this, then.

"John, right now we can't joke about this. Tomorrow will decide whether you get sponsors or not. We can't get this wrong. Screw up and you die." I'm dead anyway. Surviving these games won't be easy. One winner. It won't be me.

"I know, I know. Just thought I'd try to lighten the mood," I sigh. He gives a reassuring smile and I can't help but to return it weakly.

"Caesar will ask you questions. You'll have three minutes to answer them like every other tribute. The problem is how we're going to go about it. You're a naturally charming guy, John, but your image portrays you as a robot built with the heart of a human, and emotions to match. You've been seen as a serious young man, unaffected by having your name called out. So here's what we're going to do. . ."

The plan for me is to act normal. That's not hard. I'm not interesting enough as it is. The hard part will be not laughing, not joking, not smiling. No emotions. Sort of. Well, actually, I have to look like I'm trying to keep them held in because I think 'showing my emotions will make me weak, and no one will take an interest in me if I am weak.' I can talk about things that would usually have me feeling something, I just can't make it look like I'm affected by it. They want me to act like a soldier. I spend five hours with Mike going over this, perfecting my act and getting my speech right. He gives me questions, and I answer them to his standard.

We take a break through the sessions to eat lunch. I acknowledge Sherlock with a nod and he does the same. We don't speak the entire time. Mycroft leaves for my room, apparently needing to take care of something before my session with him. And he would need to use my room, why, exactly?

Mycroft's lessons aren't so easy. For a patient man, he can get incredibly irritated if you get something wrong too often. He gets pissed pretty easily though he hides it behind a fake smile. He gives me his umbrella to use as a walking stick, though why he does it I can't figure out. I'm hoping they don't plan on sending me on stage with one. We spend time going over my posture and how I'm going to walk and sit in that chair on the stage. Apparently Sherlock's going for the bored kid approach, much to Mycroft's distaste.

I don't feel like eating dinner tonight. I'm more bothered over the interviews. I sit in my room, asking myself questions, remembering to sit up straight, making sure I keep my facial expressions right. Three hours pass. I think I've done as much as I can. If the audience sees through my act, I'm as good as dead. I curl up under the sheets. No Sherlock here tonight. I think he's talking with his brother downstairs, and it doesn't look like he'll be staying here tonight. Good. He needs the rest. Tomorrow'll be stressful for the both of us. I'm actually looking forward to seeing Irene.

What the hell am I saying?

* * *

The two who are my prep team get to work as soon as I'm up and showered. They said that they let me lay in for an extra half an hour or so because they heard about my nightmares. I've also been told that Irene's working with Sherlock, and the gay guy is working with me. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. They don't apply much make-up on me, thank God, but they do draw the symbol from the opening ceremony on my hand in the same blue and gold used for Sherlock's. They actually go one step further in stencilling a pattern from the top of the heart right up the side of my arm, around my neck, and then ending above my left ear. Judging by the look of my arm, they're going for veins leading to the brain, connecting the two. That might leave an impression. Hopefully not the wrong one, but any impression is better than none. I take a look closer to what they're doing. It looks like they're actually calculating where the patterns are going, and they're being oddly precise about it, too. Is this part of Irene's plan? Apparently my designer right now is just doing as Irene's orders. She's the brains of this operation.

How oddly fitting.

The gay man walks in, making the two from the prep team leave so he can tend to me. I might as well just call him The Man, since Irene's known as The Woman. Irene's not straight, either. Fancy that. He's holding some kind of suit thing that I see other tributes wear when they're being interviewed. A lot of the males end up wearing them, though each is unique. This is no exception. I can see why they payed so much attention to the detail on my arm, because trailing up the side of the sleeve of the blazer is an identical image to that what's been stencilled on my body. It's a perfect fit, too. The blazer, pure black aside from the gold trim around the sleeves and the bottom, has the same pattern sewn onto it in a brilliant blue. I'll be wearing a dark purple buttoned shirt underneath, with plain black trousers. Smart black shoes. The only color in this entire get up is what's on the arm and the decorated border of the blazer, with the purple being secondary and not too eye catching. She's really thought this through. I'm glad she was my stylist. I couldn't have asked for a better one. Really, because whoever my stylist is, I'm stuck with. But she really is intelligent. Everything down to the last detail she has perfected and thought through. I make a note to thank her for everything when I see her again. If I see her again.

The Man and I are the last people to get to the elevator. Everyone's been waiting for us. I give Sherlock a brief nod. He doesn't respond. He's dressed in the same black coat he wore at the opening ceremony, only with a red pattern leading down from the collar to where his. . . Oh. To where his heart is. The same design as mine. His hair is the same as usual, though underneath that curly fringe of his is the delicate painting of a brain, the same color as the heart on my hand. The veins decorating him are all in red. Blood red. What a pair we must make. His neck is wrapped in a blue scarf, his body covered over with a purple shirt the same as mine, though probably a bit _too_tight fitting because those buttons look like they'll just pop off with the slightest bit more pressure, black trousers like my own and a pair of classy shoes to match. His patterns are on the opposite side to mine, the red starting from the bottom of the symbol at his right temple, running around the top of his neck so you can see it above the scarf, continuing on his coat and ending at his chest. My symbol is on my right hand and ends at my left temple. Perfect placing. Mike's reminding us of what to do and how to act and telling Sherlock to 'try not insulting someone even if he means it.' He only offers a smirk.

A majority of the tributes have already lined up, single file, by the time we get off the elevator. We're standing behind the District Nine tributes, and District Eleven takes their place behind us. I'm expecting the audience to get tired easily, so I'm partly glad that I'll be going fifth from last. They won't pay me much attention that way. Sherlock will be interviewed before me. Maybe he'll explain how he got that twelve? On second thoughts, he wouldn't give anything away to the other tributes watching. Please don't let him insult someone. I know Mike's told him enough times already, but I lean my head forward to tell him one last time, just in case he 'forgets.' I don't have time to tell him. They've already started walking onto the stage, sitting in their seats, forming an arc-like shape. I try to remain as emotionless as I can. It's working. The down side to being one of the last to be interviewed is having to hear about every other tribute and how strong they are or how smart they are or what's happened in their lives. The good thing is not having to go first. That's the only good side I can see to it.

I start looking for people I recognise, like the prep team, or Mycroft, or Mike or Mrs. Hudson, but instead, my eyes find their way to the Gamemakers sitting in a building on the right. One of them catches my eye but I don't remember him. I tear my gaze away and search for Irene, who's sitting on the end of the first row next to The Man. I still don't know his name. No one's bothered telling me. I can't see our mentors in the crowds, but if we mention something about them, the camera's sure to head their way, so I'll be able to see them on the screen. Mum'll be watching tonight on her television with Harry. This is our last day here in the Capitol. Our last day of safety. I want to do them proud, but even they know that I'm fighting a losing battle. So I've made up my mind. From tomorrow onwards, my sole purpose is to make sure Sherlock gets home, safe and sound. Screw my life. No one would miss me other than my family. I would try to get Molly or Greg back, but that wouldn't be too good on our district. Sherlock has to win this. No matter what.

Caesar takes to the stage wearing his usual clothing for interviews, but his hair color is different. This year it's a light purple, but his eyes are decorated in a slightly darker tone. It looks like he's trying to pull of a nightly effect? His lips are coated in silver lipstick. Sparkly silver lipstick. Did Irene know what he'd be like this year? Is that why we're dressed in purple shirts? He starts talking to the audience, and when they're feeling more comfortable, he calls up the first tribute. The females always go before the males of the district, so Sally is the first up. During training, she seemed like a bitch towards some people, favouring Anderson's company over others. She hasn't bothered dressing up for this. It's just a 'casual' look. Simple black jacket, dull green top, a pair of jeans and some black heels. Her hair is the only thing that looks abnormal, and yet it's the same as she always has it. Puffy but neat. No points for effort. I don't really bother listening to her answers until one particular part.

"So rumour has it you've formed an alliance with Sherlock Holmes, the boy from District Ten, and Gregory Lestrade, the boy from District Three, as well as the other tribute from your own district?" He asks cheerily.

Sally makes a snort in disgust. "Lestrade decided against it, saying he'd only weigh us down, which was fair enough, but the _freak_ from _that_ district? You _are_ kidding, right?" Half the audience may be laughing, but my hands are clenched by my side again. No one other than Sherlock notices, thankfully, so I ease up, but the word 'freak' keeps swimming around in my head. Sherlock tries not to look affected by it when the camera moves over to film his reactions. Still a good actor. But even I can tell he's wounded by it slightly. Was he used to being called a freak? I remember when I complimented him for the first time and he was in shock. People often told him to piss off. He _is_used to this. It's not fair. It's really not fair at all. Her three minutes are up. Anderson's turn. He'll make some crappy excuse about his score or say something like Sally did about Sherlock, so I purposely tune him out.

Moran takes to the stage once Anderson's time has run out. No one seems to be wearing anything elaborate for this interview. He's wearing something that looks like a vest, obviously to show off his muscles, and a pair of tight fitting pants with a pair of trainers. No one's bothered to make people stand out. Is this intentional? I can't help but feel the other stylists have figured out our own plans of staying unnoticed. I look towards Irene. Even she's frowning at everyone's clothing choices.

Sebastian gets along well with Caesar, constantly joking around, making light of the situations, refusing to give in to the demands of who he's allied with. He says that Moriarty is one ally, and that he doesn't want to give anything away just yet. That pleases the audience. When asked about his score, he stays quiet, not wishing to discuss it. We're not allowed to anyway. The buzzer signalling that the three minutes are up sounds, and Caesar gives his hand a firm shake before calling up Moriarty.

He really does act like a child. The audience love how innocent he is and laugh when he states he's wearing Westwood with a serious face. He refers to himself as 'Richard Brook' through some of it. Apparently he called himself that when he imagined himself in a fairytale. He comments on Sherlock a few times, saying how he loved the way he acted during training and winks to the audience. I froze at that point. He couldn't possibly have known about our plan. There was no way he could have noticed our acting. No one else did. Or maybe I'm thinking about it too much. Maybe he means what happened during training instead. Still, I can't help but wonder. That'll stay on my mind tonight.

Molly does well and wins the audience with her shyness and her intelligence. She blushes a lot, too, especially when she's asked if she has a boyfriend. I find her glancing towards Sherlock every now and again but he takes no notice.

Lestrade ends up making them cry. The story about why he volunteered takes up about two minutes of his time and they're lucky enough to fit in two more questions based on his score and the rest of his family. He's done pretty well for himself, but he looks tired. I hope he gets a good rest once this is over. An early night is just what he needs.

I can feel myself getting tired going through the other tributes. I don't let it show, but the energy is being drained out of me. I want this over with, and I want it to end now. This is pointless. Why do we need interviews? Oh, for sponsors. Right. I catch myself mid-yawn and set my face into its expressionless mode or whatever it should be called. My blank face? Robotic face? Three minutes per tribute, and yet it seems to drag on for ages. Sherlock looking bored because I can tell he actually is. That's not an act. That's a genuine 'I-want-to-go-back-now-because-this-is-stupid-and-I-have-better-things-to-do' look. I try not to laugh. Sherlock's name gets called and he takes one last look at me before heading off. He flops down on the seat next to Caesar, flings his legs over the side of the chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Before we go anywhere, I think a congratulations is in order, don't you?" Caesar address the audience. "A twelve from District Ten! What a fantastic achievement!" The audience starts applauding so hard I'm almost certain it's actually a thunderstorm. Sherlock fails to hide the smug look spreading slowly across his face. "We really want to know how you did it, don't we? Don't we?" The crowd starts shouting agreements at the stage but Sherlock simply shakes his head. He knows he's not allowed to say, but he gives a small hint anyway.

"I observed."

Surprisingly, he manages not to insult anyone directly, at least not until he's asked about Sally and Anderson. Then he insults them and points out that they're actually an item in the Games, much to the spectators surprise. They didn't know that. They probably didn't want anyone to know that. But he's told them, and all the televisions in Panem are tuned in right now, so everybody knows that Sally Donovan is getting her fair share of excitement from a certain Anderson. When asked about the whole image us two have, he keeps up his side of the plan and says that we're really only just acquaintances and that we argue a lot. He says how he avoided every station I was at, how he made sure to watch me from across the room in order to keep tabs on what I was good at and how I can get very angry at the slightest of things. I think he plays that last bit so people will have more of a reason to watch me in the arena. I am silently cursing at him. The final question asked is about his friends and family back in District Ten. He doesn't say much about that, and he repeats what he said to me, previous.

"I don't have friends," in the exact same tone he used on me. Caesar goes to say something to help out, but Sherlock interrupts him with a line I haven't heard him say before: "I've just got one." I freeze in place. Me. He means _me._But we're not friends, are we? Sure, we share the same room sometimes, but only to keep each other company. We put up with each other. We eat together, complain about Mycroft's weight, and sometimes we have to keep contact with each other just so we know that everything that's happening is real, but we're not friends. Not once have we said we are friends. And yet, I catch myself smiling at the thought of it. I quickly replace it with the look I'm meant to be wearing, but the feeling stays. Friends. I guess in some strange way, we are friends. That might be part of the reason I wanted to ally with him. We may not have known each other long, but it's been long enough for us to class each other as friends, hasn't it? Friends. God, I didn't think I'd be using that word with this guy. But it fits, and I really don't care otherwise.

I almost miss the point where I'm being called for my interview. I stand up, straight as I can possibly be, and literally march, army fashion, straight over to the seat my partner once occupied. I'm not so nervous once I actually sit down and exchange greetings with Caesar, but that doesn't mean I'm too confident about it. He'll help to calm us down, yeah, but he won't be able to do the same when we go in and fight for our lives.

"Welcome to the Capitol, John Watson! Is it different to what you expected it to be?" he asks.

"Well, it's more colorful than back home, I can tell you that," I reply, Caesar and the audience laughing at my response. I stay perfectly still.

"Too colorful for your liking then?"

"Nah, not really. Just not used to seeing so much color. You guys are like walking rainbows, in both looks and personality." That wins them over. Complementing the Capitol, buttering them up. It goes down well.

"We could say the same for you and your fellow tribute tonight! Has anyone seen the fantastic work on your designs? Show it off, show it off!" he chants, the audience joining in, so I stand up and face them side on, displaying the symbol on my hand and the expert stitching running up my sleeve. The cameras find our stylists in the audience. They try to get them to turn their focus back on me. "And the side of your head, too, don't forget that part!" I turn again and show them where the pattern ends at my temple. They're loving it, the whole 'Heart and the Brain' thing. Irene's done good. Really good. "The Robot's Heart. I'm sure we all want to know what that really means, John. Are you allowed to explain?"

I look over in Irene's direction for approval. She nods. "I'm not really too sure what it means, myself. I think I'm supposed to be the heart, and Sherlock's the 'robot' you guys keep talking about. He's not really capable of feeling things, whereas I try to keep things bottled up inside." I can't find Mycroft, and he might hate me for this later, but I continue anyway. "If I'm being honest, Caesar, I'm struggling to cope with how I'm feeling right now. I just don't want to disappoint anyone." Man, I am _owning_this crowd with the honesty. My lips twitch up but fight back the smile. That helps. It's doing well for my image.

We discuss my scoring and how I reacted to it, and discuss Sherlock's score and my reactions to that, too. I simply say that I'm glad he got a high mark and he deserves it for being such a jerk. The camera pans to him. He's smirking. I don't hold back my smile this time. He asks about my family and how they reacted to the reaping, and my answers are honest. They were in ruins when they visited me, and I'm not afraid to tell them that my sister's probably drinking her way into heaven as a means of escape. Caesar turns to the camera just before the buzzer goes off.

"Harriet Watson from District Ten, stop your drinking and watch your brother do your district proud!" I return to my seat and watch the other four tributes go through their interviews. Now I'm regretting wanting this to be over. The quicker this is over, the less time we have left of our freedom, and even that's limited. Tomorrow is the day the Games begin. The fight to the death.

I stagger into my room, knackered and exhausted and hating myself for wanting things to hurry along. I'm an idiot. A complete idiot. Why did I want this to pass quickly? I'm not exactly looking forward to tomorrow, so I keep asking myself why. Why? I just want to sleep and never wake up. If I don't wake up, maybe I can get out of the Games. Fake my death before the night ends, get sent home in a box, tell everyone I'm still alive and go into hiding for the rest of my life to avoid the Peacekeepers. Not the best plan ever but it's a start. Sherlock stays with me tonight, and he actually falls asleep curled up next to me. I want him to win this more than anyone else. I've got to keep him alive. He deserves it for being so brilliant. Better him live than me. Sleeping isn't easy, but I drift off eventually.

I really don't want to wake up. Dream or nightmare, whichever comes to me tonight, I absolutely refuse to open my eyes when morning comes. I don't want to wake from anything that isn't real. Please let me be dead in the morning or maybe lose all my limbs somehow.

I don't actually want to die.


	7. Chapter 7

**A.N. Let the Games begin! And may the odds be ever in your favour!**

**I'd really love it if you guys could review this for me. I'm not too bothered about the content. Improvements, what you like, what you dislike. I'm not fussy on that! I'd just be so happy to get reviews you wouldn't even knoooow. Oh, actually, here's an idea. Instead of reviewing, you could guess what's going to happen or who'll die or who'll win? Ideas would really help, too! Thank-you very much for reading this far, and I hope to not disappoint you!**

**There was a beta for this, but unfortunately I can't use Microsoft Word any more and she couldn't edit on Google Docs with me, so things have bee unchanged. Any mistakes are my own, and I'm sorry in advance.**

**I am so crap at writing things like these.**

**I would also like to note that on the 30/4/2012, I met Andrew Scott, and he smiled at me.**

**That is all.**

* * *

It's today. _It_ is today. I refuse to get up. It's not morning yet. Impossible. It is not time for us to leave. I'm not in the Capitol. I can't see because my eyes are squeezed shut and I really don't want to open them. This has been a dream all along, and yet I don't want to wake up. The Hunger Games, being taken from my family, dropped off in the Capitol. Meeting Sherlock. None of this is real.

I wish.

Sherlock hasn't left, to my surprise. Usually he leaves early so he can talk with Mycroft over whatever business they have with each other, but he must have been too tired for that. Moving slowly so I don't wake him up, I prop myself up on my elbow and watch as the sun begins to rise through my window. Ten o'clock signals the start of our fight for survival and fame and glory. It's currently twelve in the morning. I still don't want to wake up, but I know we have to. Most Capitol residents don't wake up until late, and since we don't know where these Games will be held, the journey could be a long one.

"So it's arrived already," Sherlock whispers. Okay so maybe he _hasn't_ been sleeping the entire time.

"Yeah. I guess this is goodbye until we meet up again in the arena, huh." Sherlock nods and releases his hold on me. If we both survive, I won't meet him again until tomorrow, maybe later. It depends on where a hovercraft is seen and if we both survive the first day.

"You say 'goodbye' like it's definite."

"Well it is, isn't it? We might not survive the first day."

"For a confident man, you're lacking in the bravery area."

We both walk out at the same time into the arms of Mrs. Hudson, who gives us both a kiss on the cheek and a very tight hug. She says it's been an honour, having two tributes like us, and that she wishes us the best of luck in the arena. Mycroft and Stamford are wishing us well, too. I thought there'd be more of an emotional goodbye between the both of them, but they hardly say anything. Shaking hands. That's all they do. It's all Mycroft does with me, too. Stamford, on the other hand, is pulling us into bone crushing embraces, wishing us luck like Mrs. Hudson is. Before me and Sherlock leave, Mycroft pulls me back for a final word.

"Tell him I'm sorry."

"You can do that yourself," I reply. Our mentors won't be the ones to see us off; they'll be signing sponsors for us, if we get them. Irene and The Man, yes I still don't know his name, will be there, helping us get ready before we take to the stage that will be our home for the next week or so. Maybe even longer. Depends on how quickly we die.

So I go back to my room and try to rinse off whatever paint is still on me from the interviews. But it's not coming off. Not even a drop of it. The color of the water stays clean, and I can't help but think Irene's done this on purpose. They may not be permanent, but they'll last a while to show that me and Sherlock will remain a team, even if we're not actually together. At least I'll still have a reminder of her and how fantastic she's been to us. Once I'm dried off, I sit on my bed, because going back to sleep won't be possible for me. Sherlock's in here again. Must have slipped in while I showered. He occupies the seat by the window, and we sit in a comfortable silence for a while, just watching the sun rise higher and higher into the sky. The mark of a new day. The mark of the first day of the Games. I still don't know how the Capitol can bear to see us murdering each other. There is no pleasure in murder. We don't speak for an hour. There's nothing to be said.

I let him use my shower, and he climbs into my bed without permission, but I really couldn't care less about that. I think he's finally realised that he will actually need the rest before we go. Any amount of energy is a godsend. We'll be using a lot of it on the first day. Sleeping in the arena is asking for death, so unless we're properly hidden. . . well. We can't really afford to take any naps. I, on the other hand, can't even close my eyes for another few minutes. I take the vacant seat Sherlock often sits in and move it into the center of the room, though why I'm doing this I actually have no idea. I guess I just want to keep the Games off my mind, and having something to do might make things a bit easier. Twirling the chair on one leg doesn't help. Sitting in awkward positions is really uncomfortable. I fall off the chair quite a lot. Swinging back on it is just stupid so I don't know why I bother doing that. Mrs. Hudson walks in for the final time, waking Sherlock up and making sure I don't injure myself before we go.

Irene's not with me. Nope, she's with Sherlock, because she's taken a shine to him and I have never been important in her eyes. So I have The Man, whose name I _still_ don't know, escorting me to the hovercraft and joining me on the ladder where my limbs seem to freeze in place at the touch. It's a horrible feeling, not being able to move around like you want to. But I've gotta deal with it. I always thought courage was something I was born with. The past few days have made me weaker than ever. I don't want them to know that I hate this. That I hate them. Them freezing me in place. It feels like I'm trapped no matter where I go. Can't even stand on a bloody ladder without being trapped against my will.

A woman on the hovercraft speaks to me before they release me, saying something about placing a tracker in my arm. This will be how they know if I'm alive or not, watching my every move with whatever devices they have in the Capitol. At least they release me right after it's in place. I'm served more meals once I'm on board, and I try to eat as much as I can before we land again, but the thought of running on a full stomach isn't exactly the best thing. I might get cramp. That wouldn't be good. So I make sure I eat _just_ enough to keep me going for a good few hours or so. I don't think Sherlock's eating, though, wherever he is.

Forty minutes pass and everything goes dark. Well, not everything, since there's still light in the hovercraft, but it's hard to see when the windows suddenly go black to prevent anyone from seeing the arena. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. We must be landing now. Here already. The site where many deaths will occur. I brace myself. I'm fine. I'm _fine._ No matter how many times I tell myself that, I can't convince myself that I actually am. I don't want to die. _I don't want to die._ But I will. The only way of me surviving this is by winning and killing others. I don't want to do that, _God_, no, but I will have to eventually. These thoughts stay with me when I make my way off the hovercraft, down the ladder and into a section beneath the ground. Off to the Launch Room. The Stockyard. Now I know how the animals back home feel.

I wash myself, clean my teeth, calm myself down. Stand in front of a mirror. Stare at myself. Get undressed. The same as I did back in the Capitol, but now I am preparing to die; to play a Game for the Capitol's amusement. And quite frankly, I am disgusted at myself. The whole time I was in the Capitol, I was treated like one of them, clothing-wise. Showered with love, made out to be some sort of hero when I'm not. The same as every other tribute. And I'll be honest, some of it was great. I enjoyed parts of it. But now I'm regretting feeling that way, because I am an idiot. The only reason I was there was because of the Games. Harry and Mum and everyone back home had been watching me act like a complete idiot, and they're about to watch me throw my life away. Can't cry. No time for crying over mistakes.

The Man, his name is actually Angelo, shows me the clothes I'll be wearing when I'm in there. A plain black v-neck shirt, camouflage trousers that look probably a bit too big for me, a pair of black boots, ankle high, that have multiple buckles on them, and a simple black jacket with two pockets, no buttons or zips. I ask if there's a belt, and Angelo hands one over to me. Thin and black with a brown buckle, but it looks pretty strong. I can't help but stare at the camouflage, though. I thought we were supposed to camouflage ourselves in there, not be given help beforehand. Unless there are no trees or bushes or plants to hide in. Now I'm suspicious.

Angelo helps me change into the clothes, commenting on the camouflage and saying that it's not normal for the Capitol to do this sort of thing, then wishes me luck and hugs me so tight I'm sure I'll be dead before I even step into the cylinder. Unfortunately I live, then make my way over to said glass cylinder and stand there collecting my thoughts while a voice overhead says "one minute 'til launch." I can't stop fidgeting. Yeah, I am nervous. Who wouldn't be? Bravery is something that comes naturally, but until I'm up there on that metal plate, I can be as scared as I bloody well want to be. And bloody hell am I petrified of what is waiting for me above ground. My main fear? Moran.

The platform I'm standing on begins to rise slowly to the surface. Angelo gives me a single wave as a farewell. Even he knows I won't survive this thing. As the plate ascends, I prepare myself mentally, not wanting anyone out there to see just how fragile I am. All my life I've shown no fear. The Hunger Games have changed me a bit since the reaping. Now being scared is natural.m Hiding my fear comes just as easily. If I show them just how afraid I really am, they'll try to take me down first. I don't want to die on the first day, dammit. Finally, I'm above ground, when the a voice shouts out about the Hunger Games and what anniversary it is and blah blah blah I'm not really listening. The light is blinding, but my eyes adjust and I take in the sight around me. What the hell were they thinking? The Games this year will pass in no time at all, and the Capitol freaks won't be pleased.

Our arena takes the form of a ruined city.

* * *

Sixty seconds to take in our views. Judging by the look on everyone but Sherlock's face, no one expected to be thrown here. The arena is literally like a deserted city: ruined buildings, rubble, dust, old bricks. Where in Panem are we? I haven't seen a place like this before. It's just so. . . dull. Dreary. Lifeless. Whatever's left of the buildings is crumbling away while we wait. It's odd, though. The ruins closer to the Cornucopia are so worn down they provide little to no protection against other tributes, and yet the bigger ones further away look like they'd be a good resting or hiding spot. The further they are, the larger and more sturdier they seem to be. The ground before us is grey, too, much like everything else here. Mud? It doesn't look wet enough to be that. Ashes, maybe. Burned remains. But I can't focus on that too much. I take a look to the right, seeing if there is anything over in that direction I could make a grab for. A medium sized pink bag, a small blue one and -

A crossbow. There's a crossbow, just lying there, next to that blue bag. No ammo, but it's still a crossbow. Flimsy looking thing, much like the one I used as a toy back in the day, but _it is still a crossbow._ A quick glance at the Cornucopia. There are two crossbows in there. Steel or some kind of metal. Why did they put those in? And three of them? What were they thinking? Seb is two plates away from me on the right, grinning to himself. His eyes are on those crossbows. Shit. _Shit, _he knows how to use them too. The fragile one is my best shot. A weak weapon is better than none, and I'll take my chances. Those two bags and that weapon are mine for the taking. I don't bother looking around to see if my allies can reach anything because I am so focused on what's soon to be mine. Though I do hope there are a few things for them to grab. To the right Run to the right, keeping running in that direction and do not stop. That's my plan and I am bloody well sticking to it. Sixty seconds seems longer than usual, but I get into position to sprint across the area, and I know the others are doing the same by the sudden rustling of clothes. Aside from that, we dare not move. Step off the plate and you're dead before the Games even start. A slight breeze, not much, blows some dust around, but thankfully it's my direction. No dust in my eyes. I hear Andersin complaining and try not to laugh. Oh, this will be tough on him. Best he heads in the direction of the trees. . . Hold on. Trees. _There are trees!_ Well they'd have to put them in somewhere but I was starting to doubt it. I can make out leaves in the distance. Way too far back, but it's just visible through the holes of a massive building, and that makes me feel so much better. Has anyone else noticed? Probably, but I can't dwell on it. No time. The gong will sound any moment. I need those bags and that crossbow.

And sound the gong does.

From the looks of it, I'm one of the first off, but I don't pay too much attention. Seb's the first off in general, heading towards the Cornucopia at an amazing speed. Can't risk looking back over my shoulder to check on Greg, Molly and Sherlock. Those bags are _mine_ and no one elses. I'm not the only one with my eyes on these, though; one of the tributes from Eleven has seen them, too, but he's slower than me. I scoop the first bag up and sling it over my shoulder. The second bag and the weapon are slightly further back, but it won't take long to get them. Screaming. Crap. One down. There could be more dead already, but died silently. Crap. Crap. Can't look back. Keep running, do not look back. Grab the bag. Grab the crossbow. Good. Safety. No ammo at all, and no idea what's in my bag, I continue running as fast as I possibly can, jumping over the bricks and walls and whatever else there is. Someone's behind me. The person from earlier maybe? Most likely. No one else was heading this way, I don't think, and since I'm the one with the loot, it'd make sense for this person to chase after me. Running is my only option. Falling over or tripping or even taking a breather isn't. Can't risk it. They're gaining, now, but I don't stop. I _need_ to get to wherever that tree is. Maybe there's a water source over there. If there is, then there should be wildlife. Food. God, I need to get there. Someone's screaming after me. The person chasing me? I thought it was the tribute from Eleven, but I don't recognise the voice. I remember both of Eleven's voices, and that isn't it. Who is it, then? I don't care. Can't stop running. Can't pause. Need food and water source. _Need safety._

"John!" comes a girl's voice. Not Molly. I know hers well enough by now. As much as I want to stop, I don't. I can't. I don't want to take the risk. I promised the other three we would meet up, and I plan on keeping that promise. I jump over another wall, stumbling a little bit but continuing onwards, regardless. The buildings are getting taller, but not by much. It's getting harder to jump over things. "John Watson!" she shouts again. No, no, just, just leave me alone, or I'll have to kill you and I really don't want to do that - "Just stop already! I'm not going to kill you!" Yeah, right. Keep running, John, keep running - "I need to warn you about the other Careers." Other Careers. Oh. _Oh,_ this is Violet. I stop for a bit and duck behind a wall, just in case anyone else is following. Why me? Why are the Careers interested in _me?_

"Piss off, Violet, or I'll have to kill you, and I don't know about you, but I actually want to survive the first day," I hiss, hugging both the bags and the weapon to my chest. I won't check the bags yet. Not until I'm alone.

"John, look, I can't be here long. I told them I would go after you and kill you, but I won't." I notice how she pauses slightly as if to say 'I won't kill you _yet_.' "Watson, listen to me. We're not all together." Wow, what a shock.

"Violet, I do not give a flying shit about who is allied with who -"

"The only Careers staying together are One and Two. Those idiots from One are in an alliance with that other idiot from Seven. Dimmock? Anyway, those from Two have teamed up with some other districts, but I don't know those. They have their eyes on you and Sherlock. Whether it's to kill you or make you join them, I don't know. That's about as much information as I can give."

"What about you and Carl, then?"

"Going solo. Keep an eye on Carl for me, alright? I don't want us to be enemies, but this doesn't make us friends either." And she's off before I can reply. Just as well. I make sure she's actually gone before getting up and continuing my journey to wherever that tree is. So District Four hasn't allied with anyone. That's surprising. I had a feeling Dimmock would go with the Careers, but I expected all of the Careers to band together like a bunch of hooligans to kill whoever got in there way. These Games will not be like others. I can tell that already. Then again, no Hunger Games are the same.

They're getting higher. I don't think I'll make it to my destination before the night is over, and I know the audience is focusing on whatever is happening at the center of the arena. They won't fire the cannon until the bloodbath has finished, and the hovercrafts will collect the bodies that lay there. The Cornucopia is not where our alliance will meet. Further back, yes, but right at the center? Hell no. That's what we've agreed, and that is what we'll do. Someone should be killed in the next few days further into the arena. Where the first hovercraft appears is where we will regroup. I find a building, wrecked but stable, and decide to stay there for a while. I need to look through this bags eventually. There's a gap between two of the walls that look like they'd hide me well, so I squeeze into there and hope for the best. Before I do anything, though, I take a few minutes to catch my breath and listen for any more footsteps. None. I'm safe for now. Crossbow still in my lap, I take the first bag, the pink one, and carefully open the top of it, emptying the contents infront of me. Two small loaves of bread, a knife, a scarf and a roll of some sort of thin fabric. The knife I can use as a temporary weapon. I might also be able to carve some stakes out of thick branches with it when I get to those trees. It's sharp enough to. The scarf might help fight the cold, or if I injure myself I could wrap it around the wound. It's the kind of blue Sherlock wore for the interviews. Maybe I'll just give it to him. The cloth I unwrap and lay out over everything else just to see how long it actually is. The length looks like it would be able to keep two people warm underneath if they squeeze right next to each other. Width looks like it could cover someone just taller than me, from the neck down. I fold it back up and put it back in the rucksack, then rip a bit of one of the buns and stick it in my mouth. I'm thirsty, but it's not a problem right now. I put the bread back in the bag, making sure part of the fabric keeps it covered and clean. The other bag contains a can, one of those made out of tin that has fizzy drinks in. I hope it's not one of those and that it's actually filled with water. As great as those drinks are, I found myself even thirstier after drinking one last time, and that really won't do me any good. There's also a box of matches at the bottom. Thank God for that. We were crap with fires. Underneath those matches is a small round mirror, just bigger than the palm of my hand. There's also a reel of sellotape, but what use I'll have for that I don't know. I've got food and a drink, even if only temporarily. Good enough.

I don't think anyone else will be in this area. Violet went in another direction, and one of the Career alliances would have cleared out the Cornucopia. The tribute from Eleven might have turned the other way. I don't want to risk giving away my location if I can help it. Maybe I'll settle here or find another building with a second floor. Truthfully, I'm comfortable here. I'd settle here if it wasn't for the fact that I don't know if anyone's followed me.

Five cannon shots. The bloodbath has ended, then. Five lives taken brutally and watched by Panem. That's actually shocking. Most Games have about ten or eleven die in the first day? They might have hightailed it out of there in fear of Seb, but at least there are families with their relatives still alive. Five shots. I hope the others are doing alright. I don't think they'd have gone in the first day, but I'll find out tonight when they project the faces of the fallen in the air.

It's getting cold now. I've been here. . . what, three hours maybe? I haven't been paying attention. What's the point? I'll count the days, but nothing else. I wrap that scarf around my neck, grateful for the warmth it provides, even though it's not much. I'd wrap myself in that sheet, too, but it's too big and would stick out of this gap, giving away my location. Why is it so cold? I need to make it to those trees quickly. I'd feel safer there.

Another cannon fires. Someone else has died. Whether it's at the Cornucopia or further out, I can't tell. I don't actually know if we can see the hovercrafts if we're not near them. My plan's slowly starting to crumble, just like the buildings around here. I've got to stay awake for the sounds of the hovercraft. If I miss it I'm screwed. It better not be on the other side of the arena; that would take ages to get to. It won't be long until the body's collected, so I keep listening for it, despite how tired I am. Can't sleep. Can't close my eyes. I need to find that hovercraft, and I cannot afford to fall asleep now. I rip off another bit of one of the rolls and chew on it slowly to pass the time. After a few minutes, I can hear something nearby but I'm not sure what it is. It's not a person, I don't think. Hovercraft? Hopefully. There are other things lurking out in the arena to make things more 'entertaining.' Please let it be a hovercraft.

It is. It's close, but the sounds are faint. The dust is moving around, so the force of it's strong enough to reach me. Behind me to the left, maybe. I can't see past the wall and I don't have eyes in the back of my head, but I might be able to find a spot of blood or something around the area. If I could get there and find shelter, then the others would be able to find me. No, wait. Dead body. Hovercraft near me. Someone's died, and it can't be because of poisonous berries or accidentally killing themselves.

Someone else is nearby. Someone who isn't afraid to kill. Someone who could, quite possibly, be looking for me.

* * *

I hear the footsteps now. A single pair of them. It's a male, I know that. I can't see who it is, but I can tell by the way they're breathing. They're worn out slightly, grunting once or twice in annoyance. They haven't seen me yet. Good. Knife in my hand, just in case they _do_ spot me, I try to make myself smaller to fit into the gap better, holding the knife, crossbow and two rucksacks to my chest to hide them from view. Wait, what did I have in one of these bags? Carefully, I take the mirror out of the smaller bag, trying not to make a sound, and hold it in front of me to get a view of what's behind. There's a small hole in the wall, but I don't think anyone would notice it unless they're really looking. I tilt it so I can see through the crack. Shit. _Shit._ That's not who I expected it to be. I was hoping for it to be that one from Eleven who was following me.

Sebastian Moran, on his own, searching for his prey. I put the mirror back in the bag and place a hand over my mouth and nose to muffle any sounds I may or may not be making. He's on his own. _On his own._ Wasn't he meant to be in an alliance? Did Violet lie to me? Of course she'd lie to me; she's not a friend, she's my enemy, no matter what she says. I need to stay calm. The audience will understand my reasons for this, and they'll be wanting to see if I'm found or not. Well, fuck you, Capitol, but I don't plan on dying today. Especially not to this guy.

"Shit. Not here," he mumbles, and soon after, I can hear him running off in another direction. Thank God for that. So Seb's looking for a specific someone, and that's most likely me or Sherlock since we declined his invitation. I can't help but smirk. The cameras are watching me.

"Should have looked harder, idiot," I say, just loud enough for the cameras and microphones to hopefully pick up. I wait another few minutes for any signs of his return, but I hear nothing. Now I'm exhausted. I close my eyes, needing the rest and thankful for the darkness when they're closed. Now comes the issue of actually falling asleep. It comes easier than I thought it would.

I wake up a few hours later. It feels like a few hours, at least. I don't have a watch, but I'm not dead, and I feel better than earlier. I'm calm enough to get up. Not worried about the threat looming over me anymore. I need to get to where I heard that hovercraft, find somewhere to stay, and then wait for Molly, Greg and Sherlock. If they're alive. I swing both backpacks over my shoulder, making sure the crossbow is tucked safely into the larger bag, with the knife in my left hand. The scarf's still keeping me warm. It's gotten colder, but it's not a problem for me. My main problem is making it to that site in one piece. Walking or running? Running might be too loud, but I'd get there faster. Walking will be quieter but it'd take twice as long and I could be ambushed easily. Maybe I should jog. No, this is not time for joking. Running it is. I take a breath and begin to sprint, not actually having any idea where I'm going. I dodge the walls and rubble scattered around, ducking behind buildings just in case anyone else _is _around, until I finally see a sign that someone's been killed.

Blood splattered on the wall of a tall building and an arrow, broken, just my luck, buried in the center of it. This is where that tribute died. This is where we'll meet up. If we meet up. The most likely killer is Seb. If it was cold before, I feel worse now. Disregarding it, I look to see if there's an entrance or any loose bricks I can push away. On the opposite side of the blood stain, I find an opening and manage to squeeze through it. It's empty inside. Completely. Spiders and cobwebs, and hell loads of dust, but it should hide me and keep me safe for a few more hours, at least a day. There are gaps to look through, and also a set of stairs that look sturdy enough to climb up. I take to the stairs, not risking the chance of others finding where I am, only to find yet another empty floor with an open roof. Well, it's not really a roof, but there should be a roof there or a ceiling, but instead you can see the sky and the clouds. If it rains, I'll head back to the lower floor. I take my place, next to one of the spaces I can use as a hole to look through, unpack the sheet from the larger backpack, and wrap myself in it completely to fight the cold, and to hopefully sleep. When the anthem plays tonight, I'll watch the sky for the faces of the dead. Dear God, please let them be alright.

* * *

Hours have passed since I got here. I'm fully rested, not too hungry, and surprisingly not thirsty yet. I'll only drink from the can I have if I desperately need to. The anthem is what wakes me, just as I'd hoped it would. While the anthem plays, I stare into the sky and watch as the faces flash past. The first profile they show is the tribute from District Five. Not Henry, but the female who was brought here with him. All the Careers are alive, then. That means Molly and Greg have survived the first day, too. How many have died today again? Six now? That's the first one. The second is the female from District Seven, so Dimmock's still alive. One of the males from District Nine. That's three of them. Please don't let Sherlock's face flash up next, please don't let his face show. . .

One of the girls from District Eleven. Sherlock's still alive! Bloody hell, I'm pleased. I won't show the cameras that, but our whole team is alive and that is the best thing I could ask for right now. We've survived the day. The last two faces to show up are those of both tributes from District Twelve. This year isn't there year, then. Their families will take this hard. Call me heartless, though, because I really couldn't care less about them. Our alliance is still intact. We've still got a shot at this. We might still be able to make it through.

* * *

**A.N. From this chapter onwards, the bottom of the chapter will be used to keep track of dead tributes and those still living. Those that are in italics and underlined are those that have died. I didn't state 11 and 12's genders before: 11 has two females. 12 has one male, one female.**

**D1: Sally - Anderson**

**D2: Moriarty - Moran**

**D3: Lestrade - Molly**

**D4: Carl - Violet**

**D5: Henry - **_**Girl from D5**_

**D6: Girl 1 - Girl 2**

**D7: Dimmock - **_**Girl from D7**_

**D8: Twelve year old boy from D8 - Girl from D8**

**D9: **_**Boy 1**_** - Boy 2**

**D10: John - Sherlock**

**D11: **_**Girl 1**_** - Girl 2**

**D12: **_**Boy 1**_** - **_**Girl 1**_


	8. Chapter 8

**fA.N. Today is the day we start killing off main characters, one by one! **

**I might link you guys to my own playlist that holds all of my inspiration. Some of the songs are actually giving me ideas for what will happen. Anyway, please keep reviewing for me and guessing who's gonna be killed off next! I already know the order, but it'll be fun to see you guys guessing :P Enjoy!**

**P.S. There might be a few mistakes in this. I wrote this out on my mobile instead of using word, because it's broken. It's difficult for me to text it all out. I also haven't had a proof reader for this, since my usual proof reader and I have been busy preparing for the MCM Expo on Saturday. Any mistakes are entirely my fault. If you notice something, please send me a message about what's wrong and I'll edit it when I can.**

* * *

My nightmares don't haunt me now. Instead, they're keeping me calmer than usual, and it's comforting. Because nightmares aren't real. I've told myself that before, but I never took any notice of myself. No matter how many times I told myself, I never listened. But now, the reality is the Games. And that's what scares me, not these freaky fantasies that creep up on me in the night. Seeing dad dying again doesn't mean anything anymore; sure, it gets me upset and sometimes infuriated, but compared to what's happening now? It's more of a blessing than a curse.

So when I hear someone squeal, I don't register it as reality until I realise there are no female humans in my thoughts. I wake with a start and clutch the sheet close to my chest, waiting to hear any other signs of life. A very quiet sigh from the ground floor. Someone's here, and they haven't found me yet, but if they walk up here then they'll know. And they'll kill me.

Not if I kill them first.

I quickly fold up the sheets and leave them in a bundle near both rucksacks, taking my knife with me. I leave everything else on the floor and make my way to the steps, keeping one hand against the cold stone to steady myself. She talks to herself for a minute, but it's so low key I can't make out who she is or what she's saying, so I just continue down the staircase warily. There's some sort of noise indicating she's got supplies, though. More to play for. The cameras will be watching this to see just what happens. Better give them a good show, then. Couldn't _bear_ to disappoint the Capitol. As I approach the bottom step, I try to get a look at the intruder, but I can't see her too well. A pile of rubble is blocking my view. All I can make out is a ponytail. Great observations there, Watson. You've just confirmed that it is, indeed, a female tribute. Sherlock would be _so proud._

I work my way over to her, careful not to make a noise. I didn't realise this was a talent, too. I suppose working with animals and having to creep up on them helps in the Hunger Games. I keep the knife by my side, ready to strike if need be, then pull it back to gather strength. She stiffens and turns round before letting out a yelp and holding an identical knife out infront of her, slightly shaky. It takes me a minute to notice just who the girl is. Once I've gotten past the whole 'I'll-strike-before-you-do' phase, I pull her into a tight hug, ignoring the small jab of her knife against my chest. Molly Hooper. And I was prepared to kill her in order to save myself. Oh dear God. I pull back from her slightly, drop the knife on the floor and check her over for any signs of injury. She seems perfectly safe, except for the small tear in her sleeve.

"You saw the hovercraft then?" I ask once I'm certain. She gives a small nod in reply. Poor girl. I probably scared her half to death.

"Lestrade's on his way, too. I met him along the way, but someone found us and he told me to go ahead. I wasn't sure where you were, but this place seemed good enough to stay in."

"Greg's here?" Another nod. "Was he fighting when you left?"

"No, but he might be now. He's strong. He should be able to take whoever it is down." I gesture for her to talk more about it upstairs, just so we're not overheard. The Capitol have no doubt realised that I've formed an alliance with District Three, but I don't think they know anything about Sherlock yet. They'll be surprised to hear that. She grabs her smallish bag and knife while I bend to pick up my own sorry excuse for a weapon. I apologise to her on the way upstairs, but she just shakes her head and smiles. "No, it's fine. It's what most people would do under that situation, after all."

She leaves her bag next to my two, but takes my crossbow and examines it closely. At first I was hoping she'd come up with a way to make ammo or find a way to make it more reliable, but weapons aren't her forte. Bodies are. That's quite scary, but I won't comment on it. She knows a lot about the human body and what causes things to happen if certain things take place. We then lay out the contents of all three bags on the floor in able to see just how screwed we are for these games. Molly's got two loaves of bread, as well. She's also got a flashlight and some thin strips of cloth we can use as bandages. There's a chocolate bar, too, but only one of those small ones in a wrapper. The only water we have is what's in my can, and I'm not even sure if that's water of not. Now that I think about it, Molly's had to run a long way to get here: she was standing on the opposite end to me, I think, so she's had the longest distance to travel. Sherlock and Greg had the least. Shouldn't they have made it before her? I know Greg's reason for not being here. But Sherlock? He's quick and can easily outsmart any opponent. Unless he's. . .

A cannon fires overhead. That just adds to my worries. Just as I'm thinking about Sherlock possibly not being alive, a cannon decides to announce the death of yet another tribute. Molly's head shoots up to look at the sky, startled by the noise. She's probably thinking it's Greg, but she shakes her head, determined to get on with things and murmuring.

"No, it's not him. Greg's fine. He's capable of taking people out. We just need to keep believing in him," she announces, grinning happily over her newfound confidence. Faith. Faith won't help us, but it'll work and keep me sane. Just a faint glimmer of hope. Right now, that's what we need most. I open the can of liquid for us both to take sips from, and thank God it's actually water. Neither of us want to drink it all, so we rest it down next to Molly's bag to keep it from falling over. She tells me what she witnessed at the Cornucopia, because she didn't have the same successful escape as I did. Apparently, the tribute who took off after me was the one that died yesterday from District Eleven. They were the sixth person to be killed. "I witnessed the other deaths, myself. I spoke to the boy from District Nine during training. He was nice. It wasn't a good sight, his death, though. I watched them all die. All five of them." Moran only set off in my direction once both tributes from Twelve had been killed. She didn't see anything else, nor did she want to, so she ran to get away from them, but Dimmock struck her arm before he gave up on her. She pulls her jacket off so she can show me the cut, but it's barely visible. She says she was able to cover it up with a strip of cloth from her bag before it started bleeding too much. "Did you see the trees, too?" she asks after a moment of silence. I nod.

"Yeah, I saw them from the Cornucopia, but it didn't look like others noticed."

"Oh I saw them when I ran the way to told me to. I reached the edge but. . ." she begins to say, slowly trailing off. I manage our supplies so that we have equal amounts of everything, though I plan on being the one to carry the most.

"But?"

She sighs. "There's no way of getting across on that end. This wasteland is surrounded by water. It's pretty deep, too, and a very wide stretch. We wouldn't be able to cross without a bridge, and I didn't see one over there." So there's a water source. If we continue until we get to the edge, maybe we can find some way of getting across. Molly didn't have anything in her bag that could hold water, so she drank what she could when she was there and got back here. Walking around the edge would have been too risky.

"There's gotta be some sort of way of getting over there. We can't just all starve to death, so we'll have it figure it out ourselves," I say. Molly nods her head in agreement.

"They wouldn't put it out of reach without reason to. If they expect us to make our own bridge, I wouldn't know how to, sorry. District Two's area. They'll get across easily with all of this lying around," she gestures to the fallen parts of buildings through the crack in the wall. Yet another advantage they'll have. While I look through the hole, trying to get a better view of the area but failing miserably, Molly squeaks and starts rummaging through one of the rucksacks, and it takes me a second to realise why.

Lestrade's comes into view, but he doesn't know we're here. The cannon shot was not for him, after all. But, holy shit, he's taken a good beating. I can only just see a red stain on his shirt, right by his hip. Shit. That's, oh God, wait, no that's actually a _lot_ of blood. Molly's already down the stairs and outside to help him in. I grab the can of water, not even caring about thirst anymore where this man's safety is concerned, as well as the sheet I used during the night, and literally sprint down after her. Molly's got him inside now, thankfully, so I spread the sheet on the floor for him to lie on. He can't even talk, dammit. Molly lifts his shirt up slightly to see what damage has been dealt. She's no longer the scared, nervous girl I watched on the television. She's transformed into a courageous woman, determined to help someone in pain no matter what the cost. I can't help but feel some sort of admiration for her at that. I pour some of the water over the wound to clean it, but when I actually see it close up, I silently swear to myself. He won't make it unless I can stitch him up somehow. I've had practice with sewing, it can't be _that_ hard. Plus that woman from our district was able to do stitching and taught me the basics. Only problem is finding something to stitch him up with.

"Molly, I don't suppose you have anything I can use for stitching?" I ask, just in case she's hidden something from me, but she shakes her head.

"No. I have nothing."

"I'll be fine," comes Greg's voice. He's obviously trying to keep strong but his voice gives away just how much pain he's in.

"It's not 'fine'. 'Fine' is not being injured. 'Fine' isn't a word you use to describe a tribute. 'Fine' doesn't exist in the Hunger Games. Now we're going to bandage you up because we're just bloody teenagers who have very few supplies with us to help you. Until we can properly treat your wound, it's the best we can do. Tell me you're 'fine' one more time, and tell me you're not in absolute pain right now, I dare you." He doesn't answer me, so either I've won the conversation or he's dead, but since I can hear him breathing and he refuses to look at me, I take it as the first option. Molly hands me the strips she has, then helps him sit up again and lifts his shirt up from behind so I can wrap them around his waist. It's not too good a job, but it'll work for now. It should help stop the bleeding at least. We sit here for what seems like an hour while Lestrade sleeps, both me and Molly keeping watch for any signs of Sherlock or enemies. Neither come to us, but we refuse to let our guard down. We take turns in treating Greg's wounds, though he still insists that he is perfectly capable of looking after himself. Yeah. Right.

Wouldn't it be better for me to _not_ treat his wounds? Molly could do it, true, but if I don't help him then he could die a lot quicker, meaning one less tribute for me to kill or worry about. But I don't feel comfortable leaving someone to die like that. Putting him out of his misery? I can't do that with Molly here. If I did, I'd have to kill her, too, and that's not something I really want to do. I want to put off killing for as long as I can. So If I just leave him to die like this. . . No, what the hell am I thinking? I'm not going to do that. I won't sink to Career-level. This man is badly injured because I made him meet with us _here._ This is your fault, Watson, not his. He tried to protect Molly. He tried to get to us. And he did. Barely. I can't kill him. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

Molly takes charge, wielding both knives to protect herself. I can use my fists if need be, so I gave her mine. Lestrade's awake, now, and he looks a bit better than earlier. He's finally able to speak properly, and he's not wincing in pain. I break a bit of bread of for him to chew on while he takes a small sip of the water we have left. We're down to the last drops, but we don't really care right now. We know there's a water source. It's just a matter of getting there.

"You really don't have to do this, y'know," Greg says once he's finished the piece of bread, no humour in his voice. Sounds like he's getting his voice back and recovering, though slowly.

"Don't be stupid. I'm not gonna let you die."

"You were thinking about it. Any normal person would."

"Normal doesn't describe tributes, as it is." He shuts up after that. But it's true isn't it? Normal people don't murder others, or think about murdering others, or anything of the sort. Not what he's thinking. I don't think the perception of 'normal' is the same here, though. So what does that make me, if I don't kill people? Abnormal? Strange? Boring? I can't possibly entertain the Capitol, so they'd better turn the cameras away from us. They won't, but I can dream. With Greg injured and an alliance formed, they'll be watching us closely to see what we plan on doing. Molly taps me in the shoulder, signaling that it's my turn to take watch while Greg gets his strength back. Before I take my place at the spot Molly once occupied, I turn to the figure lying in a bloody mess on the sheet. "Didn't see him on your way?" He knows who I'm talking about, but the audience don't.

"No, sorry," Greg replies, and I feel my stomach drop. My chest is hurting. He could be the tribute that died today, for all we know, and if I'm not going to win, I wanted him to. The fact that he hasn't been seen is having more of an effect on me than it should. He's my friend. We haven't known each other long, but he's my _friend._ And that has to count for something. It would also explain the sharp pain in my chest, but that could be from the lack of clean air: the dust from around the building has been disturbed by sudden gusts of wind, and the dust and dirt's getting in my eyes. I wouldn't be surprised if that was why breathing's getting harder. It must show just how gutted I am on my face, too, because Greg catches on and tells me not to worry about him. "He's stronger than he looks." Isn't that what I've been saying about most of the tributes the whole time? "Look, he's still alive out there, not that we know exactly where 'there' is. The one who died was the guy from Seven, the weird named one. Dimmock or . . . whatever. Anyway, he was the one who attacked me along with Anderson and Donovan. The one who did this to me was Donovan. Anderson ran off because he thought he saw something, Donovan followed, and Dimmock was left to deal with me. He apologised for this mess and, well, I hit him. Hard. Then I threw a brick at him and made my way here. The cannon fired after a few minutes and I heard the hovercraft. I'm certain he's the one who died. Not who you're thinking of." But it doesn't help. Anderson saw something. That 'something' could have been Sherlock for all I know.

No one disturbs our spot. There are no signs of life outside of our building, so there's no intruders as well as nothing to kill for food. We're surviving on bread alone, and we're not even eating a lot of it. We're running out of water, too. I'm hoping Sherlock finds his way here, and that he managed to pick up something from the Cornucopia. Preferably a weapon or a flask or anything that's useful. I'm sure he'll be able to find us eventually, which is why we haven't moved on anywhere. Well that, and we have a wounded team member, but Lestrade keeps saying he can move for a bit. It's not safe, staying in the same place. But I refuse to leave without Sherlock. I've made that clear enough, and even though Greg doesn't like the idea, he doesn't bother to argue with me. Whether that's because he's still too weak to respond to it or because he knows I can easily kill him right now, I don't know, but I'm guessing it's the latter.

Two more hours have passed, and still Sherlock hasn't shown up. I'm actually starting to get seriously worried about him now. He should have been here. Molly hands me one of the knives, and I rip a chunk of the bread off to take with me. We can't limit ourselves to this area.

"I'm heading out. We need to know if anything's in our section, and I need to know if anyone's been here, specifically _him._ I won't be gone long. I'll see if I can find some water, too." No one objects. Instead, Molly takes to looking after Greg _and _keeping watch. I've just given her more work to do unintentionally. But at least they'll be safe. Probably.

I step through the hole in the wall, the one on the opposite side to where that other tribute got killed, and take a deep breath. First of all, I circle around the ruins, keeping my back to the building at all times, just in case others have been lurking this entire time. Apart from the dust swirling around, nothing moves. I repeat the process two more times, check on Molly and Greg, then double check before heading further. I don't plan on going too far; can't risk being seen or being too far from my allies. If I head forwards from the blood stained wall, I'll be able to check for Sebastian. I don't think he'd have left just yet, if he's searching for who I think. I can get back and warn the others easily if I spot him and somehow live. Then we'd need to evacuate without Sherlock. So I head in that direction, planning on searching in a circle just to make sure.

There's not much to see. There is no form of shelter in this part, so I think it's safe to assume that this area is deserted unless someone's hiding underground. Once that thought occurs to me, I quickly retreat, not wanting to find out if someone is actually waiting to spring up from beneath my feet.

No water in any of the areas I search. There's about as much water as there are tributes in this part of the arena, and by that I mean none at all. We're not even close to the stretch of water Molly's seen, from the looks of things, and I'm starting to get dizzy from hunger and thirst, so I suck on the bread I saved from earlier. It does little to no good, and it only makes me more dry. With no food or water around, I'm starting to see what problems other tributes had faced in previous Games. If I don't find Sherlock, I'll turn back. No point being here longer than I need to be. But I don't make my way back to my allies. Instead, I continue walking forwards in hopes of water, crawling, ducking and jumping over the obstacles I come across. It's exhausting. Every now and again I get a headache, and sometimes I can't see straight, but I manage to stay on my feet. Somehow. I've gone far enough to hear the sound of running water. Running water? Would that mean a waterfall as well or something? I don't think they'd really put one of those in, but it's worth a shot. I can't see it. Hell, I can't really see anything. Double walls, double buildings, double people -

People. People? No, a person. A single person. What wall do I duck behind though? Will it even be behind a wall? I try it anyway, and it doesn't seem like they've noticed me. I stretch my hand out just to make sure I actually am behind a wall and not still out in the open. The stone's cold, just like the building back where Molly and Greg are, but at least I'm hidden from view. I'm right by a stream of water, but that person is right at the edge of it drinking. The only thing I have is a knife, and if I stab them from behind. . . Well, I probably wouldn't even get a chance. They could see me in the reflection of the stream, or I would miss completely due to my lack of vision, and then where would that get me? A one-way ticket to heaven, if I make it that far. No, I need to sit here, get back whatever control I've lost and think this over. If something goes wrong, I'm dead. The rush of water is pretty much all I can hear. That's how desperately I need it. I don't know if I'm being approached, I don't know if a canon is sounding; all I know is that there is water, and someone's stopping me from reaching it. The hunger I can deal with, but I need this. I risk a glance over the top of the wall, only to see the stranger kneeling by the side of the river. Blurred vision. Not helpful. They don't look like they're drinking, so what are they doing? Looking at the ground beneath my feet, there's nothing but concrete, dust, mud. . . No, nothing useful. No vegetation, no insects, just dirt. There may be something over there, but I'm doubtful. So what are they interested in?

They're like this for roughly four minutes, and it doesn't look like they've noticed me. Do they plan on moving? I try to swallow, but it hurts to try and I'm dry enough as it is. I have to get to that water somehow. Risk another glance? It's worth a shot. I look over the wall to see how far the water stretches, but I can't tell. Still seeing double. I could try to walk around and avoid them, but what if this is the only source of water on this side? I can't go and venture across to the other side of the arena where Molly had fled to. I wouldn't make it. Killing this person is my best shot, so, dizzy as I am, I slowly stand up and grab the wall for support. Knife in hand. A rough idea of just where everything is. Oh please, lord, don't let me fall over now.

And I don't. Instead, I stagger over to the person, who still hasn't noticed me, and stare at the back of their head for a moment to try and recognise them. Blackish hair. Who had black hair? I really don't care at the moment. I just want to drink in peace. Water is what I need most, and this person is preventing me from getting any of it safely. The person raises the back of their hand to me as if they know I'm there. Do they know? Probably; I've stood here long enough staring at the back of that head they've probably heard me breathing and I've given everything away. Great job, John Watson. Maybe I shouldn't act before I've properly thought things through. Now that I can see just how big an idiot I am, wondering how the person infront of me is going to kill me, I realise that they're not actually paying attention to me. Was I wrong? Have I really not been heard? In flash, the strangers up and walking quickly to another spot, crouching down and keeping their back to me. Now I'm confused. What the hell is going on? I can see it's a male, now, looking at their posture. Are they really that oblivious?

"Before you ask, John, no, I am not ignoring you. I am merely in the middle of an investigation." Hold on. That voice. Have I really been that desperate for water? To the point I'm willing to kill someone for it? Well, yeah, but I wouldn't take out a teammate. I didn't even recognise him. I actually thought it was Moriarty or Anderson for a moment, but the curly hair should have given it away. I am so bloody _stupid_! I was just thinking about killing Sherlock Holmes. My friend. My ally. Just for a drink. Well on the plus side I don't need to worry about dying for the sake of a drink just yet. I move to the edge, just near where Sherlock sat previously, and scoop the water up in my hands. It's dripping through my fingers, but I just want to savour the moment. There is actual water here, and it may look a little bit dirty, but honestly? I'm past caring right now. I go in for another, since the last handful has already dripped back into the stream, and bring my hands up to my mouth. The instant the water enters my mouth, I feel refreshed and need a lot more to quench my thirst. The first swallow is hard. I've had so little water the past day that swallowing stings and causes a huge pain in my throat. So I avoided it unless I was actually drinking from the can. The can! Why didn't I bring it with me? I wasn't expecting to find a water source, that's why. If only I'd taken something with me. . .

Whatever Sherlock was interested in before has been replaced by me. He's now standing over me while I drink, but I can't tell if he's watching me or looking for anyone else. I take another handful of water, then another, and two more after that. But now I feel guilty. I'm here drinking when Molly and Greg are dying of thirst. Once I'm satisfied, I stand up, dry my hands on my trousers and turn to face the other tribute from my district. We don't do anything but stare at eachother for a good few seconds, and then I finally give in and punch him. I aim for his jaw. At least I can aim correctly again. He staggers backwards a bit but doesn't retaliate. Instead he stands there, holding his jaw, continuing his staring game. My fist hurts from where I connected with him, but compared to the pain I'd felt earlier when I thought he was possibly dead, it's bearable.

"Was that really necessary? There are better ways to greet an ally. Handshake. 'Hello.' And yet you go to hit me. Are we allies or no-" I refuse to let him continue. So I literally fling myself at him and pull him as close as I can. I thought he was _dead_ for God's sake. I can at least show him how glad I am that he isn't. The punch was for not meeting us and making us worry like hell. The hug's more of a greeting. He doesn't react. He lets me cling onto him, but I think he may be a bit surprised at my actions. He might have thought we'd just go back, or I'd turn on him and kill him and - No. Sherlock Holmes is alive, he is letting me have this moment of comfort, and that's all I can ask right now.

"We thought you were dead, Sherlock," I say once I've pulled away from him, but I leave my hands on his shoulders.

"Oh please. You saw those who are dead, did you not? That boy from Seven died, as I'm sure you already know. I was just -"

"We agreed on meeting where the hovercraft was! Or at least where we thought it was!" I interrupt. He's losing interest in this conversation already.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It's only now that I realise he's got a small bag slung across his shoulder. Why didn't I notice that before either? "Let me finish. I saw Lestrade injure the imbecile from Seven, then followed him to where he died. I asked him what the Careers plan on doing, and he refused to give me answers, so I left him. Anderson returned for him just as I left, and then the cannon sounded. Dimmock held nothing of interest, and I discovered the Careers aren't in the same group. I knew where you, Molly and Lestrade took refuge, and yes, I was going to join you. You could have waited longer. I was looking for the water. Now, before we head back and report our lack of findings, I want you to give me your opinion on something." Before I even have a chance to interject, he's already gliding over to the spot he occupied earlier. Not the one I found him in, but the second one, right by a large rock with a hole in it. At first I expect to see some form of creature in there, like an insect or a small mutation or something along those lines. But no. I follow him over to the oddly shaped rock, only to find that it's not the rock we're focusing on. I make mental note of anyway, just in case i get lost at any stage. Best make a map of the area, just to avoid that. I have no doubt Sherlock already knows the area or at least has an idea of the layout. I crouch down beside him, barely even touching him, and he starts talking before I even know what's going on.

"The area we are currently in resembles that of a deserted city, most likely bombed, and only the buildings remain. The water you just drank actually separates us from what's over there." He waves his hands in the direction of the trees, then starts poking at the ground again. "This part of the arena is circular. There is only one way we can get across,and that is by a bridge. Now, when I left for my destination, I found a strip of water and followed it around until I was certain that the Gamemakers have purposely not included a bridge. Until I've been around the whole stretch of land, I can't be certain, but they may want us to build the bridge by ourselves. Or swim. But the only tributes able to swim with ease are those from Four, so that's out of the question. We'll have to find a way across if we're going to survive, unless our sponsors offer us food." I'm still staring at the rock. Sherlock lifts it up and draws a 'W' with his finger in the spot where it sat. He then puts the rock down, covering the letter, commits the location to memory and begins to walk away. So, what, he just plans on leaving me here? I get up to follow, running after him to catch up.

"Great, so we know about the arena. What about your bag then? What's in that?"

He smirks. "Gift from the sponsors. They knew about us being allies. Two water canisters. Both full now. Do hurry up, John, we can't leave the other two to die. Without you there, they're easy pickings."

"You know where we're taking cover?" I ask.

"Of course I know, John. I do happen to listen to you. I knew exactly where you were, I just chose to avoid you for the time being. If I didn't, you wouldn't have known about the water." Well I can't argue against that. Now that we know just how far away the water is from our current shelter, we'll have a better chance of surviving. The only issue now is food. I'm hoping our sponsors managed to send us food supplies too. Wait. . .

"Hold on, rewind: sponsors? You have sponsors?"

"We, John. _We_ have sponsors." I hop over one of the walls I almost fell over earlier.

"No, _you_ have sponsors. I've received nothing. So don't give me this 'we' bullshit. They have more confidence in you, not me." I realise I'm acting upset, and yeah, okay, maybe I am a bit. But I shouldn't be taking it out on Sherlock. It's not his fault. He got a better score than me, so i shouldn't be surprised, but seriously. They know just how badly we're doing out here, what with a dying Greg and shit. They could have at least sent me the canister separately.

But he did get the highest score, after all. It's no wonder. He's getting sponsors because he has a shot at winning, and people are betting on him.

"You never know; it could have been sent before you left." That's true. Molly and Greg could have received it after I'd gone. But if that's false, then I have every right to be pissed. I'm so mad at my supposed sponsors, I don't realise Sherlock's pulled me behind a wall until I feel the familiar coldness of the stone against the back of my hand. He's leaning over me, though we're out of view, with his chest pressed against mine. He pushes me to the ground and I'm worried about what the viewers will make of this. Does he plan on killing me? Or something along those lines? Maybe he's trying to make a scene for the public by making us look like we're -

Oh, no, God, he better not be planning that. I open my mouth to protest, but he motions for me to be quiet by placing a finger to his lips. He's literally got me up against the wall, restricting my movement, and I have no clue what's going on until I hear a frustrated sigh from the other side of the wall. Now it makes sense. Unless someone's being killed somewhere, there will be a camera focused on us right now, recording both our actions and reactions. Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, probably to listen out for whoever it is and figure out who the voice belongs to. He doesn't have to. Two more voices. I can make them out, only just, but they must be a while away. I hold my knife by my side, gripping tightly if I need to attack at any stage. Sherlock shakes his head and points to the far end of the side we're standing on. We'll head over there, see if the other two people are on that side, then run for it, I guess? I'm assuming that's what he's suggesting. It's too awkward to move right at this minute, and I want to know who's here with us. Murmurs, and that's it. I know there's at least one female, so I think back to what Violet told me about the alliances and try to work it out from there.

Sally and Anderson from One went with Dimmock. But he's dead, so unless they've recruited another ally, I don't see how it could be them. Violet and Carl are on their own I think? Or was Carl with those from Two? There wouldn't be a female voice if that were the case. They could have joined with one of the females from another district. Am I thinking this through too much? A bit, maybe. I can't pause to think. Pausing for a long time can result in death.

Sherlock's pushed himself away from me, so I have room to move, and as soon as he's creeping along the wall, I follow. One of the voices from the other side picks up and I freeze in place.

"We stop for water, then kill Three." Sherlock glances towards me, confirming whatever suspicions I had about that sentence. They argue over who gets to kill who, and I realise they don't know about us being allies. We make our escape while they're distracted, and I don't know if Sherlock's talking to me or not. If he is, I can't hear him. I'm focused on one thing right now.

Greg's injured. They know where we're taking cover.

* * *

**Italics are those who have lost their lives. The remaining tributes are as follows:**

**D1: Sally - Anderson**

**D2: Moriarty - Moran**

**D3: Lestrade - Molly**

**D4: Carl - Violet**

**D5: Henry - **_**Girl from D5**_

**D6: Girl 1 - Girl 2**

**D7: **_**Dimmock**_** - **_**Girl from D7**_

**D8: Twelve year old boy from D8 - Girl from D8**

**D9: **_**Boy 1**_** - Boy 2**

**D10: John - Sherlock**

**D11: **_**Girl 1**_** - Girl 2**

**D12: **_**Boy 1**_** - **_**Girl 1**_


	9. Chapter 9

**A.N. I don't know how often I'll be able to update now due to different things happening here, so if I don't update often, I'm so sorry.**

**Please continue reviewing for me! Good or bad reviews, they make my day that little bit better for me. Thank-you for sticking with me so far! A majority of these chapters will now be written on my mobile, and since I have a crap keypad, I might make mistakes more than usual.**

**For those who don't know, it's currently the second day in the arena.**

**Chap. 8 will be edited at some stage I just don't know when. There are a few things I need to rewrite.**

**On another note, this chapter might get confusing. There's no need to worry about that, because I'm pretty confused myself, and that's how I want this particular bit to be. Welcome to the mind of a confused sixteen year old who doesn't know what the hell is going on. So in other words, yes, you ARE supposed to be confused at some points. You would be, too, in this situation, right?**

**I also think I'm rushing things. I'm sorry. Things will be explained clearer later on, where John makes choices, so. . .**

**I should probably stop apologising now.**

**But back to the confusion point, I'm writing some parts as if it were me and my sister in the same situation, because we talk about how we would feel in the Games and what would probably run through a few tributes minds. You **_**will**_** get confused at one point, maybe two, but that's intended.**

**Any spelling mistakes are my fault. I currently have no beta since she's busy with exams. This chapter may be edited if it confuses people too much.**

* * *

"We have to relocate immediately."

I'm still none the wiser on who the tributes we overheard were, but that doesn't matter. What matters is our safety, and what we need to do right now is focus on changing base. It'll be a struggle, of course, with an injured Lestrade who falls asleep every so often. He's improved a lot, Molly tells me once she's had a mouthful of water from the canister. We'll have roughly an hour before we need to evacuate this building, so we're preparing as best we can: eating a bit to keep us going, re-hydrating ourselves, using the rest of the water in the tin can to wash Greg's wound. We repack the bags, me holding the heavier one and Molly taking the one with the sheet in. Lestrade's managed to stay awake long enough to help us formulate a plan of action, and once we've all agreed, I help him stand up by placing my arm under his and around his back as support. He winces but doesn't complain.

The plan is to find a way into the forest section so we can get food, drink and protection. We may need to make a bridge somehow, if we don't find one. Before we head out to the water border though, we're going to retreat a few meters back to the Cornucopia. We can throw our pursuers of our tail that way, since they'll think we've made an automatic run for the water source. So we're going to travel to the center, though not actually risk going to the Cornucopia, and head in the direction Greg originally split of to when the Games started: mine, Sherlock's and Molly's points provided us with water but no means to cross over it. Sure, the arena may be large, but we might as well see if there's anything over there.

"I didn't get to the end of my section. Sorry 'bout that," Greg apologises. I don't see why he's apologising, since he stuck to the plan. It's not like he knew he was going to get injured on the way. Sherlock grunts.

"It would have made this a lot easier if you had."

"Hold on, Sherlock, that was uncalled for," I say as I help Greg limp to the opening of the building. Neither of us see anyone or anything, so we're guessing the coast is clear. "_He_ followed the plan and met with us asap. _And_ he got attacked on the way. The only one who didn't stick to the plan was _you._ Don't blame this on him. It's not his fault." Sherlock gives a huff, suggesting hes given up with us 'idiots.' But what I've said is true, and he knows it. Now he's just acting like a kid. And that won't help him win.

We let Sherlock take the lead since he seems to have some form of map in his brain. He hasn't even seen the whole area, but I think he's formulating it based on what we've said and what he's seen. So we give him one of the knives, as a defence, with Molly bringing up the rear so we can get a better view of things and so that we're prepared. I'm going to help Greg as a support. He's determined to survive this.

We're careful when walking back to the Cornucopia. I get the feeling that some of the Careers might be there still, using it as a base or storage for the items they've collected. But even they'd need to leave eventually: there's not enough food in this area to sustain them. It might just be me being nervous, but I don't really know, myself. I silently pray that I'm wrong.

Sherlock brings us to a halt by raising his hand. We stand here for a few seconds while he scans the area, mostly looking for threats, and when none are found, we sit in the shade of a low wall to avoid the heat. Last night was freezing - I'm still wearing that scarf - but the weather changed so suddenly. I wonder if that's something the Gamemakers incorporated into this. If so, then we need to try and figure out what the pattern is, and fast.

Sherlock's motioning for us to continue following him. I can feel Greg's head moving beside me and it becomes obvious to me that he's trying to recognise things around him, but judging from the sigh he gives, he's having no luck.

At least, not until we see more blood splatters on the ground. Greg asks if I can let him go for a minute, which I oblige to, and he kneels down beside the markings with Sherlock at his side. It's three minutes before anyone says anything.

"This is where I left Dimmock when he was dying," Greg says. He adjusts his positioning so he's not hurting himself further, then beckons for Molly to come over. She takes her spot beside him, so I assume that means I'm the lookout for now. But they don't give me their knives. Goddammit.

Sherlock traces a line with his finger on the stain, then lifts it so he can see it closely. He rubs his thumb against his index finger before wiping it off on his jacket. "Fresh blood. If this was Dimmock's, it would have dried by now in this heat. Someone else has been here and stupidly gotten themselves wounded. John, come here. Lestrade, take over as watch. Right. Now, John, I understand you know a few things about nursing? Then you should be most suited for this," he states while I sit next to him and look at the blood. I don't want to do this.

"Yeah, from back in Ten." Sherlock moves over to give me more room, with Molly silently watching on. The first thing I notice is just how much blood there is, and then I realise that what Greg said was true: this was where Dimmock died. There's actually two pools of blood, though one has dried up and been absorbed into the ground. The other is what Sherlock tested. The colors are different, the first being darker than the second. I think Sherlock's pleased, because when I glance at him, he gives me a knowing smirk.

"Enlighten me." The same words he used on our last night before the Games. I move backwards so I'm sitting up straight.

"Dimmock _did _die here, but the newer blood indicates someone else is here somewhere. It's a pretty deep wound, by the looks of things. Too much blood for it to be minor, unless they have haemophilia. Unless they get whatever injury it is cleaned up and treated, they'll most likely bleed to death." The silence doesn't bother me until I hear a scream from somewhere. A male scream. I instantly freeze up, but Sherlock rises immediately and heads off in the direction of the voice with Greg following closely after. I'm about to join them before Molly stops me by placing a hand on my shoulder and shaking her head. "They'll be alright." I nod in agreement, even though I want to go with them. "You made him happy just then, I think. He trusts you better than us at the moment, and I think you just proved his theories right." Sherlock and Greg return not too long after, with Sherlock looking just a _bit_ angry at Greg for whatever reason. When they sit beside us and the blood, which is now making me feel sick with its smell so I pull the scarf up around my nose and mouth, I notice that Sherlock's chosen to sit closer to me than to either of the other two, and that Greg is sitting nearer Molly than me. Either they've had a row, or what Molly said was right.

"The scream came from _that_ direction, I tell you! I'm only doing as you say because you're a valuable ally, despite your stupidity." Greg's face is a mixture between the look you see when someone's just been insulted, and the look of someone who's just been told they are really talented at something. Like he's being praised and insulted. I manage to hide a laugh, but Sherlock's still not amused.

"Look, Sherlock, the problem is the fact that this could be a set up," Greg replies.

"It most likely is, yes. But what if it isn't?" Sherlock questions.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock sighs in frustration and turns to me. "John, you remember our encounter today?"

"Which one? The one where I found you or the one behind the wall?"

"Wait, what?" Greg's focusing on me now. Did we forget to tell them this? Well, we _were_ in a rush to escape that building, but I would've thought Sherlock had explained it to them?

"Yeah. On our way back. We were dangerously close to being discovered by three other tributes. That's why we had to change location. They knew where we were. . ." Wait. That scream. When we were hiding from those tributes, I _did_ here a male talking, but it was quiet. I still have no idea who the voice belongs to, but the scream sounded oddly like that of the male I overheard. Sherlock nods, pleased with what I'm noticing.

"Good work, John, though you should have realised immediately. At least you're improving." I don't think it's the heat warming up my face though the scarf. "If I'm correct, which I most likely am, the argument at the wall split the alliance. None have died yet: no cannons. But if that were a full alliance being attacked, wouldn't there be more shouts? Yes, if they were being ambushed."

No one speaks for a minute, wondering if Sherlock's going to continue, but it's clear he's expecting us to pick up on what he's hinting at. What _was_ he hinting at? I share a look with Greg, but he doesn't seem to understand either.

". . . But it might not be an ambush. Two allies could have turned on the other," Molly says, breaking the silence.

"Finally you people are starting to see sense. This is the direction you came from, yes?"

Greg doesn't answer. Thinking it over. Then he points just behind Sherlock, a bit to the right, and says "That was where I was before the cannon. I remember Sally and Anderson arriving from the direction we heard the scream," he points just behind him; "They ran back that way, too, leaving Dimmock here." Am I the only one remembering that there's a heck lot of blood here? We've surrounded it like a campfire, and it reeks. I stand up quickly and move away from the group, all eyes on me. They lose interest and resume talking while I squeeze into a gap between two walls, pulling the scarf up further. It's nowhere near the end of the day, and I am exhausted. The smell of blood is sickening, and I can't get it out of my mind. So I try to focus on something else.

The audience in the Capitol will get bored eventually. All we've done is talk and avoid conflict. One person has been killed today. If someone else dies, then maybe we won't have to face the wrath of the Gamemakers tonight: when the Games begin to get dull, and there have been no exciting developments or twists, they'll do something to liven things up until tributes are near each other. Fires, floods, trackerjackers, mutts. Whatever they can do to get things rolling again. Greg keeps glancing over to me. I close my eyes to ignore him. Escape this reality.

If I was home right now, I would be watching this same thing happen, but with my mother and sister by my side. We'd feel awful for the tributes, of course, but our saying would ring true: _Nothing ever happens to the Watsons._ Harry would be drinking and talking with Clara, mum wouldn't be worried for us this year, and I would go on living as normal until the next reaping.

But then what? Would I still be watching Sherlock on the screen if I were back home? Yeah. Probably. But I wouldn't know him like I do now. I mean, I didn't know him at first, true, and I hated him. I still would, if I weren't here. If neither of us got chosen, would we somehow have met in the future? Would we have been friends or enemies, or just acquaintances? For this one reason alone, I'm glad I am part of this years Games. If I weren't, I wouldn't have met Sherlock, or Molly, or Greg, or any of the other tributes I get along with. It sounds stupid, but for once in my life, I'm surrounded by people who are the same as me, in some respect. We're all unfortunate enough to be jammed in here. That's a likeness, isn't it?

I'm drifting off to sleep. I can feel it. That's how tired I am. It's been a long day. I can hear a few whispers from the rest of the group, but can't make out what they're saying. They must be planning to move later or something. It's still nowhere near night. I open one eye slightly, squinting due to the burning sunlight. If I were to guess the time, I'd say it's roughly six in the evening. Why haven't the Gamemakers done anything to speed this along? Is something taking place at another location, or is someone dying, maybe injured? Could they be focusing on our plans or plotting something while we speak? They often make the unnatural events happen when tributes are away from each other, so why haven't they done anything yet. . . ?

Shit. I jump up from my sitting position and run straight to the rest of the group, ignoring their confused expressions, and I search urgently for either of the knives we have but with no luck. Sherlock's holding his and it doesn't look like he'll be giving it up any time soon, but where's Molly's? She could have put it in one of the packs, but she's not stupid. Both hands empty. Did she place it down? As if he understands what I'm thinking, Lestrade stands up, wielding a brick in one hand and his back to the pool of blood, now mostly dried up, so that he can look for whatever I'm worried about.

"What are we looking for?" he asks. Molly's alert and follows suit, with Sherlock still sitting down with his legs pulled up against his chest looking bored. Molly also grabs a nearby brick, using it as a replacement for the knife. I'm the only one unarmed. The second knife is still hidden from me.

"The gamemakers would have attempted to bring us together with other tributes if there were none near us. Nothing has happened, and there's only been one death today. Why wouldn't they have done something yet?"

"Because there's someone near us?" Molly understands and replies after a second of silence.

"Don't be stupid. You're thinking too much." Sherlock stands up and hands me a knife. He still has one in his hand, so that means Molly gave him hers. I take hold in my left hand.

"Sherlock, there is no other explanation," I say. "One death isn't going to satisfy them, and we've watched long enough to understand how the Games work."

"Yes, John, I know. But you are still thinking too hard. Just stop thinking and -"

Nothing else registers. I can focus on nothing but the extreme pain in my shoulder as an arrowhead buries itself just underneath the shoulder blade. Someone screams my name, and for a moment I'm back in District Ten, on the day of the reaping, looking over at my sister and seeing the fear and pain and anger mixed in her expression. Back to the day my name gets picked out of a bowl. But that's as far as the memory goes, because the next bit is me getting shot at by a female. I think about Sherlock telling me I was wrong, and how things weren't as I had thought. Except I was right.

If it wasn't for the pain surging through my shoulder, I would be grateful for the sudden darkness that claims me.

* * *

The problem I'm facing right now is walking. I regained consciousness roughly seven hours ago and was unconscious for about eleven hours, meaning that it's the third day in the arena and I missed any cannon fires the previous day. Molly filled me in on all that had happened while I was in a dream state: I collapsed after screaming about the pain in my shoulder, Sherlock grabbed the knife from my hand and ran off after the attacker, Greg following after him and trying to calm him down when they couldn't find said person, Molly treating my wounds and removing the arrow - a bolt, actually, fired from a crossbow - and then Sherlock keeping watch over me. Apparently, he said something about me dying, but I didn't really listen to that.

Sherlock made an analysis based on my current state. I've been shot in the shoulder - my left shoulder - and my hand is shaking a lot. Yet the problem is my leg, and the fact that I've suddenly gained a limp which will bring the whole party down. Psychosomatic, from what he tells me, which I already know. Molly's done a great job of patching me up and disinfecting the wounds: a parachute arrived for Sherlock that contained medicine for me as well as bandages. The silver parachute itself is actually wrapped around my arm as a makeshift bandage, just so we can save the rest of the bandages for worse wounds. It's tied together with the tape from the bag I picked up, and even though it's uncomfortable, it'll work for now.

But at the moment, the issue is me walking in general. We have nothing for me to use as support, so me and Greg are acting as if we're one person. He's still weaker than he normally is, so we're practically leaning on each other until we find our footing and can navigate together. It's harder for me, but there's nothing I can do about it right now.

The pain is bearable, I suppose. Every now again again my hand twitches and I wince in pain, but my leg is what annoys me the most.

Right now, though, Greg's sleeping. I don't know what time it is; I only know it's my third day here. The tribute who showed on the screen last night was, in fact, Dimmock from District Seven. I say a silent prayer to his family while I perch myself ontop of a wall.

Our group moved, that's for sure: we're by a stretch of water not unlike what me and Sherlock had discovered yesterday. Still no sign of a bridge, unfortunately, so we're getting by on the food we have. We're down to the food I have left over, but a majority of it goes to me and Lestrade because we're injured. We have to keep our strengths up.

I think our group took a detour, honestly: Lestrade didn't recognise anything on the way here, so I'm guessing that we changed direction because of the attack. If I'd have noticed sooner, we'd be at our destination unharmed by now. But we have a source of water, and there are many tall buildings nearby to provide shelter. To my right, for example, stands a tall, strong building, reminding me of the building we stayed in when we were preparing for the Games. Though there are a few places where the walls have crumbled and fallen, it's actually not too bad. We're using this one as our current base, preparing for the journey ahead. Our food is rationed, and we're filling up on water while I try to walk again. Back to out location, though. We've left footprints due to the muddy areas, so we'll have to clean those up later. Leave no trace. The building has four floors that are all perfectly intact, excluding the holes we plan to use as lookout spots. Surprisingly, there's actually furniture in there: worn out sofas, teared bed lining, something the resembles a kitchen but I can't be sure - there's even a sink with clean water and a bathroom. I hop down from the wall and make my way to the first floor, where Sherlock's taken refuge. The ground floor is the floor we won't be using. If someone else stumbles upon this place, there's no doubt a fight will break out and that's what we don't want. Me and Greg will occupy the floor above Sherlock's, and Molly's taken to the top so she can get a good look-out. She's actually really observant. Not as observant as Sherlock, Christ, no, but she's the second best in our group. Me and Greg are 'rooming' together so we can check on each other every now and again.

Sherlock's draped himself over an old, beaten sofa, lying with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled together near his mouth. I want to thank him for trying to track down the attacker. To let him know how glad I am that he's still alive and that we're allies. But the words stay caught in my throat, so instead I work my way over to the next flight of stairs, carefully avoiding the hole where a step is missing. I lied: I can walk. But I limp, and without a support, I can last around eleven minutes without falling over. When I reach my floor, Greg's asleep on the sheet we laid out for him earlier. I plonk myself on the mattress in the far corner.

This place isn't exactly what you'd class as 'luxury,' but compared to that of the homes I've seen in Ten, it's a step-up. Take this room for example: it doesn't look like much when you place it against those in the Capitol, but it has the basics. There are two hard mattresses, both situated next to each other with roughly ten centimeters of space between them, a cupboard attached to the wall just above my head that is currently empty; whether it held something before we arrived or not, we'll never know. There's actually a wall that separates this room from the bathroom, but even that's pointless. The taps work, but they're rusted and grimy. The toilet works fine, too, but then I think of the sewage and where it leads too and. . . yeah. I don't like the thought of that. Other than those things, there's not much else on this floor that even suggests it was once a home. Torn wallpaper, burnt in some places, ripped carpets and floor boards. But it still provides us with some form of comfort. I actually prefer this to the way we were treated in the Capitol. It just makes me feel closer to home.

Sherlock got the better end of the stick, though: he gained a sofa, a slightly softer mattress but no duvet, working toilets and sinks, extra space due to the three dressers in the room and a fridge. A _fridge._ An actual, working fridge. Though I'll admit there was no food there when we found it, it's a boost for us. Keeping the bread fresh for longer. At least until we get some meat. There were even a few clothes in the wardrobes, but the material was so thin you wouldn't even see Irene dressed in it. Or maybe you would just because it's Irene Adler and she can wear what the fuck she wants even if it's nothing at all. We keep the fabric anyway. Maybe it'll come in handy at some stage. Who knows?

Molly's floor is practically the same as Sherlock's, though there are two huge beds, both with hideous pink duvets thrown across them - even if they are a bit muddy - and two dressers. So in other words, me and Greg get the crap rooms because we're most likely to die and there's no point in us getting blood over the sheets. Not exactly true, but I can't help but think it.

I lay back on the rough surface that's supposed to be my bed resting place for the night and stare at the small gap in the ceiling, silently hoping for something like a spider or cockroach to creep out from it to indicate some form of life, but with each passing minute, I realise that what I'm doing closely resembles watching paint dry and end up closing my eyes again.

I replay the events of the previous twenty-four hours, or what I remember of them. Finding Molly. Helping and treating Greg. Panicking over Sherlock. Finding Sherlock and a water source. Then I'm brought back to the voices we heard when we were leaving. The scream we heard was from a guy, right? I don't remember; my memory's fuzzy from then on. But I think it was a guy. Only one cannon went yesterday though, and that was for Dimmock. His was the only face projected in the sky last night, Molly said. So what happened to the boy who screamed?

My eyes snap back open before the shooting comes into view. I don't want to see that again. Not that or what I imagined it to be. My shoulder starts pulsing, right where the wound is. That'll leave a scar, no doubt. Unless the Capitol can operate on it once I win the Games, it'll be a permanent reminder of the time spent here. Wait.

Win the Games? When did I decide I was actually going to attempt to win this stupid thing? My plan was to make sure Sherlock made it back safe, not me. That's what I had been telling myself. Why have I changed my mind? Oh. Right. When the shooting happened I saw my sister's face again. I don't want her to go through that a second time, only with tears and a burning hatred for the Capitol. I know I won't win, but I can try, can't I? Or die trying. Dear God I am so confused right now. Nothing's going how I want it to. How _do_ I want things to go? I really don't know. I'll work it out along the way. I hope. Thinking about this is giving me a headache. No, I'll think about this when we're protected. I'll make my decision then. Right now, I need to help find a way to get on the other side of the arena. If I had a stick to use as a crutch, it would make my life so much easier. But there's nothing useful. Think, John, think. _What would Sherlock do?_ He'd make do with what he has. Look for things to work with. The headboard behind me is wooden but not too big. Whether I can use that or not depends on where I break it. If I snap it right, it might work, but if its even the slightest bit wrong . . . And then there's the whole 'leave no trace' thing. Breaking it with my hands might make it look like the damage had been done naturally, but there would be jagged edges to it and that might be a problem. Cutting with a knife would be suspicious. So where do I go from here?

I decide to check on Molly, see if she has any solutions, but shes not on her floor. I grab the railing on my way down: from our section to her's, there's a rail we can hold onto, but it's only between these two floors. She might be outside, figuring out how we're gonna get across. When I reach the bottom step, I see Greg stir in his sleep, and its only faint but I can here him whispering something. I can't make out what he says properly, though. It might be something about his family, or maybe a nightmare or something. Or he could just be in a lot of pain. That's sounds about right. I place one hand against the wall, feeling the wallpaper crumble a bit beneath my hand, and make my way over to his area, making sure I don't disrupt his sleep. He's sweating. I can't tell if it's due to the heat or if he's running a fever. There's nothing I can do to help him right now, apart from trying to keep him alive. My previous thoughts of trying to win this come back to me, but I dismiss them with ease. Footsteps coming up the stairs, now, as I turn to see who it is, but of course, it's just Molly returning from whatever she was doing before. She offers me a smile, which I return, qnd sits by my side, watching over her district partner with concern.

"You can leave him with me," she says. I nod before attempting to walk back down to the lower floor.

The temperature's changed again: boiling hot. That's why I'm unsure of Greg's status. I discarded the scarf for today, lending it to Sherlock because it reminds me of what he wore for the interviews. It looks better on him than it does on me, anyway. He hasn't taken it off for some reason I'm unsure of; he still lays there on that sofa, eyes closed, presumably lost in thought, with said scarf wrapped in a loop around his neck. Yep, it looks better on him.

I sit on the lower step of the staircase once I've reached the ground floor, both hands clasped firmly together on my lap. There's nothing to see in this room. It's just. . . empty. I can compare each room to people or districts actually. The second floor is like a resident of the Capitol, properly furnished, all of the things you need to help you live, fine clothing, and ridiculous colors, even if it is a little worn down right now.

The fourth floor - Molly's floor - is what you would expect to find in District One, Two and Four. Less than what the Capitol has, but favourites due to their produce. So naturally it would look somewhat similar.

The floor where me and Greg are reminds me of home; all those districts who mean little to nothing to the Capitol and it's residents. Sure, we have bedding, but it's the sort you would expect to find in a poor home. We have the basics, minus any food storage or fancy clothing, and that's how we've survived.

And then there's this floor, completely empty with not even a spider's web in the corner, which surprises me because you'd think a room as dusty as this would contain even the smallest of creatures. But no. This room is alone. Different to all of those other rooms, that are surviving either off of each other or just struggling to get by. This room is like District Thirteen, the district that no longer exists. Untouched. Alone. As if it's no longer important and doesn't matter any more. Unnoticed.

In that respect, I guess I could compare it to us, as well, when it comes to scoring in the Games and our current situation. Sherlock's one of the top contenders in this Game, so it sort of makes sense that he has the room that's most 'luxurious.' Molly's proving to be a valuable asset too, and she's one of those who hasn't been injured and is proving her worth. Me and Lestrade are surviving. But no one's in the room below, because none of us are going unnoticed, and people are paying attention to us. We are all being hunted by at least one other tribute. Two of us have been injured. That's not exactly 'untouched,' now, is it? So these rooms suit us perfectly, in some aspects. Maybe it's fate.

Hah. Right.

"You'll have to use this, I'm afraid. It's the best I can do," comes a familiar female voice from just behind me. I look at Molly over my shoulder, then glance down to what she's holding in her hand: some sort of wooden stick thing that could only have come from the banister. She's cut it perfectly, attempting to minimize the risk of splinters I could possibly get from holding the top of it. The area around it is smooth enough, of course, but with the knives we have it wouldn't surprise me if bits of wood stuck out from the top at awkward angles. Let's just hope I don't get any of it in my hand.

"Thanks, Molly, but I would've been fine -"

"Use it anyway. You're struggling to get around as it is. It's not much to help, but it'll work until we find something more suitable," she says with a sweet smile before heading back up the steps. I don't know why they're actually acting like they care, but I don't want to go back to thinking about winning this Game or losing right now, so instead I test out this makeshift cane. I'll admit, it is a bit easier to move around, but the limp is still a pain in the ass.

I try to get used to this kind of support, taking small breaks from walking around the empty room, and, thankfully, I'm doing pretty well. Without proper medical help on hand, I'm having to learn how to use this for myself. I've seen a few people walk around with makeshift crutches and canes in Ten. At least that gives me something to go on. I have no idea what time it is, and I don't know how long it'll take for me to get used to this. But I'm fine with it unless I get killed.

With everyone in the building safe to some degree, I take the opportunity to go outside and 'keep watch.' Except I don't plan on doing that, not really. I'll be following the stretch of water in hopes of finding a bridge or a platform or something.

For the first time since I've woken up I find my arm aching. The left shoulder, right where the bolt hit. Usually it would take a while for a deep wound to heal, and yes, I am still feeling weakened by it. But Molly and Sherlock did a good job of keeping me in one piece and making sure my wound wasn't infected. Not quite sure how, but they might have gotten a parachute while I was unconscious with some medicine in. It's not like there's anything else we can use to help.

The best thing about being near the water edge is the fact that the buildings can hide your presence from anyone nearer the center than yourself. The structures are old and ruined, true, but they stand tall and provide you shelter if you need it. That's why we've taken to one of the taller buildings rather than the more stable, smaller ones. Our own base is actually pretty sturdy anyway, in my opinion. We found a good place by accident.

No sign of a crossing yet, but I haven't exactly gone very far, admittedly. My mind keeps wandering back to the layout of the floors where the rest of the alliance are either thinking or sleeping. Not the standings or whatever I thought about earlier; the actual layouts of the rooms. The longer I stay there, staring at the torn paper and ruined carpets and whatnot, the more I start thinking about thw Capitol. Everything but the bottom floor screams 'Capitol residence,' but if this were truly a Capitol home, why would it be here? And why is it practically in shambles? While part of me wants to find out, the other part is telling me to focus on the present and the future, not the past. If I win this, maybe I can ask about it later.

I've gone a little further than I'd planned to, still using the towers and buildings as a sort of disguise. The camouflage outfits are pretty much useless since there's no greenery in the vicinity. Either way, I continue limping at a slow but steady pace, watching the few fish swim past in the water. We haven't eaten any fish due to the fact that these are really small ones, the kind you'd find in a tank in the Capitol. We have yet to find a fish larger than the size of my fingernail.

I would do anything to be one of those fish right now.

I fear as though I'm walking a _bit_ too far away from our temporary shelter. I've gotten the hang of using this stick thing now, so I'm able to speed up my pace, but I wasn't suppose to wander around aimlessly, which is pretty much what I'm doing right now. Seriously, when did I get this far ahead? I'm certain the others haven't noticed my absence, and if they have. . . well, I hope they don't think I've abandoned them. I don't plan on doing that for a while, especially in my current state. The more help I have, the better. I can't get too attached to them. What if we were the last four tributes? Would I kill them just to win? No, I won't confuse myself again. I'll think about this on a full stomach. When I find food. If I find food.

There's a large rock sitting by the water now. Allowing myself a short break, I settle down in front of it, rubbing my leg with one hand and my shoulder with the other. Whatever they used is doing wonders on me, but it wont do anything for my leg. It doesn't matter. The leg I can deal with. It's death I'll find hard. I lean back against the rock, the hard edges digging into my back, offering very little relief of the pain in my back. It's not exactly luxurious sleeping in an arena, even with the bedding we've found. I've learnt to ignore the pain that sometimes makes an appearance, but the jagged parts are just making matters worse. I turn my attention to the sky, or the ceiling of the arena, or whatever people call it. I can't tell what time it is just yet, so yeah. Waiting for the anthem tonight will be my best shot.

Resting time is over. They'll be wondering where I am, but I can't go back until I have something useful to report to them. How can I just go back and tell them 'hey, guys, I went for a walk and found a rock' without them laughing at me and thinking I'm the world's biggest idiot? I have to find something to set us on the right track. It's not like we can stay where we are for a long time as it is.

As I press onwards, the smell of smoke lingers in the air, but I see no fire nearby. There are faint black wisps of it at the far back of the arena, but I assume that's someone elses fire. They've just given away their position. Whoever it is, I hope they're smart enough to swiftly move on and leave no trace of their presence. I'm positive that smoke can't affect me from here, so what's burning? I scan the other side for any signs of life, but other than the occasional mockingjay and the slight breeze rustling the leaves on trees and bushes, there's nothing. Complete stillness. If there is actually a tribute nearby, they've done a good job of hiding themselves despite the burning smell. Regardless, my 'quest' to find a way across carries on.

I've decided to distract myself by counting how long I walk for. It doesn't give me a sense of time, but it helps me figure out just how long a walk is. It's taken me just over six minutes to go further on from the smoke, and I am still no closer to finding a method of crossing. This particular area resembles that of the first section we took shelter in, the only difference being height. Of all the buildings I have come across so far, this one is the tallest. From outside, it looks like just a plain, old, abandoned building with moss and ivy growing between the cracks of moldy-brown colored bricks, and I'll be honest when I say the inside isn't particularly great, either. The floors are wooden, and the once white walls have been stained with all sorts if colors, though mainly the brown indicating dried blood. Either someone had died here or the Gamemakers are trying to make us scared. My guess is the former. The blood isn't recent: of that I'm certain. There's too much. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the walls were brown with hints of white instead of white with way too many hints of blood. There's a staircase, completely intact, in front of me to my right. Something dreadful happened here, but I will never know what. I've changed my mind. I'm secretly hoping the Gamemakers are trying to scare us.

The wall the banister is attached to has kept it's white appearance, though there are still stains. This particular wall has brown sprayed across it, and the blood has obvious dripped to the floor. I'm no expert but I'd seen someone from Ten shot when I was younger for trying to sneak out. He'd tried multiple times and succeeded previously, but when the Peacekeepers found out, they shot him dead. One bullet to the side of the head. He stood against a wall when it happened, and because I was nearby I saw the markings that had been made. They're not identical, but I know a head shot when I see one. Rest in peace, whoever died here. If anyone actually died here.

There are a total of seven floors in this building, and each and every one of them are empty. No beds, no clothes, no scattered remains. After inspecting all seven floors, I make my way back to the ground level. One thing I have noticed, though, is that all floors but this one have carpeting. I'm not sure what I'm getting at, but it's a bit suspicious. Why have a carpet on all floors but one? I don't understand it.

And just as I'm leaving, ready to report my lack of findings to my allies, I hear one of the boards give way beneath my foot. I'm quick enough to escape having my foot trapped between two planks, but it takes me a few seconds to understand just what it means. The broken floorboard has revealed a hole underneath, and if I'm correct, there is more to this hole than it seems. I kneel down and tear away at another board, confirming what I hoped would be true.

There was a trapdoor here, possibly used for hiding, but I saw no handle. Sherlock would have found it in no time, but I'm nothing like Sherlock Holmes. There's a hole just underneath it, leading underground. It looks pretty deep from here, thanks to the limited light source sneaking through cracks in the structure. I'm not sure if it leads anywhere and now is not the time to find out. There's a slight turning, heading in the direction of the water. Dear God, let this be what I think it is.

Let this be our way to the other side.

* * *

**Italics are those who have lost their lives. The remaining tributes are as follows:**

**D1: Sally - Anderson**

**D2: Moriarty - Moran**

**D3: Lestrade - Molly**

**D4: Carl - Violet**

**D5: Henry - **_**Girl from D5**_

**D6: Girl 1 - Girl 2**

**D7: **_**Dimmock**_** - **_**Girl from D7**_

**D8: Twelve year old boy from D8 - Girl from D8**

**D9: **_**Boy 1**_** - Boy 2**

**D10: John - Sherlock**

**D11: **_**Girl 1**_** - Girl 2**

**D12: **_**Boy 1**_** - **_**Girl 1**_


	10. NOTICE AS TO LACK OF UPDATE

**A.N. I will update. I swear to you I will. I have work at the moment however, and I've still got issues at home. I'm also going slightly mad. Please stay with me a little while longer!**


End file.
